#BUT i think i can sign up for college french classes!! it's a long story but i wasn't able to before (not offered) and am now. and i could
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think i have to wait a while before trying to read things in french even easy stuff bc i think my brain is trying to fill in what words mean even when i have absolutely no idea. i don't even remember learning to read in english so i don't know if that's how it's supposed to be...... But. i think i should wait until i have just like. more basic filler words
#BUT i think i can sign up for college french classes!! it's a long story but i wasn't able to before (not offered) and am now. and i could#just include my hs transcript where i had two years of foreign language bc it's a pre req#but i want to just take a language proficiency and then take actual french classes......... would b so swag. although fuck i don't know if#it's offered online
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Can you please give an explainer on the friendship between Robespierre and Desmoulins and what their dynamic together was like? I know they were at school together as kids but were they really as close as movies usually portray them as? Was Robespierre better friends with Saint-Just?
Bonus: What's the story behind Desmoulins using Roussaeau against Robespierre?
Merci!
Thatâs an interesting question considering how often their relationship, as you say, has gotten dramatized.
The good days of the relationship
Both Robespierre and Desmoulins started attending the boarding school of Louis-le-Grand at the age of eleven, the former in 1769, the latter in 1771. We donât know when exactly they first ran into and/or got to know each other, nor exactly just how close or not they actually grew to be while at college. To me, the following two statements do however suggest that their relationship back then was at least better than âmere acquaintancesâ:
Oh, my dear Robespierre! It is not long since we were sighing together over our countryâs servitude, since, drawing from the same sources the sacred love of liberty and equality, amid so many professors whose lessons only taught us to detest our land, we were complaining there was no professor of cabals who would teach us to free it, when we were regretting the tribune of Rome and Athens, how far was I from thinking that the day of a constitution a thousand times more beautiful was so close to shining on us, and that you, in the tribune of the French people, would be one of the firmest ramparts of the nascent freedom! Desmoulins in number 15 of RĂ©volutions de France et de Brabant (March 8 1790)
I knew Camille in college, he was my study companion, he was then a talented young man without mature judgement. Since then Camille has developed the most ardent love of the Republic;... one must not look only at one point in his moral life, one must take the whole of it; one must examine him as a whole. Robespierre defends Camille at the Jacobins December 14 1793 (only time he ever admitted to a college friendship with anyone at all)
LiĂ©vin-Bonaventure Proyart, who worked at the college up until 1778, would give the following description of the relationship Desmoulins and Robespierre had back then in his La vie et les crimes de Robespierre: surnommĂ© le TyranâŠÂ (1795):
In his lower classes, and however young he had been, [Robespierre] was very rarely seen sharing the amusements and games which most please childhood. His cold and misanthropic heart never knew those outpourings of lively and frank joy, natural signs of candor and ingenuity. Of all the noisy and endlessly varied amusements which make the public recreation of a college such an animated scene, none pleased him, and he preferred dark reveries and solitary walks. If someone, at these moments, approached him, he received him with a cold gravity; and answered him at first only in monofyllables. If he took it upon himself to praise his style and his scholastic productions, Robespierre did him the favor of striking up a conversation with him. But, however little one ventured to thwart him, one instantly became the object of some harsh and virulent trait. Camille Desmoulins, who lived at the same college, and whose impetuous and untidy character did not adapt well to the philosophical arrogance of Robespierre, had from time to time grapples with him, but from then on as since, the champions did not fight on equal terms. Always more reflective than the opponent who provoked him, and more master of his moves, Robespierre, watching the moment, pounced on him with all the advantage that cold prudence has over temerity.
Fellow students Beffroy de Reigny and Stanislas FrĂ©ron would in the latter half of the 1790âs similarly make the contradiction of stating both that the young Robespierre didnât have any friends at school and that he and Desmoulins had been college comrades (Beffroy writing that Robespierre was âhis (Desmoulinsâ) comrade and mineâ and FrĂ©ron that Desmoulins was Robespierreâs âchildhood comradeâ). Though given the time these texts were written, I think this might should be read more as these Robespierre-dislikers wanting to have the cake and eat it too (ergo they both want Robespierre to have killed his childhood friend and to have been so repulsive he had no friends at all) than as full blown evidence Camille was Robespierreâs âonly friendâ at school as the latter puts it in La Terreur et la Vertu.
Finally, Marcellin Matton, when writing a short biography over Camille in 1834, stated the following regarding his college days:
It was [at Louis-le Grand] that Camille got to know Maximilien Robespierre. They differed in character, but both had this passion which always distinguishes men of genius â love for liberty and for independence. The fully republican education one gave to young people born to live under a monarchy contributed a lot to their character. Without stop and in all forms, one presented them with history of Gracchus, Brutus, Cato. Camille was always together with Robespierre and their conversation most often revolved around the constitution of the Roman Republic.
While this certainly sounds like it could just be romantizing, we do know Matton was friends with Camilleâs mother-in-law and sister-in-law, and it itâs therefore possible itâs them (who in their turn would have gotten it from Camille) who have given him this account of a close college relationship.
Itâs sometimes argued that Robespierre and Desmoulins canât have been friends while at school since they were never in the same grade, and it therefore would have been really hard for them to socialize. And indeed, when looking over the school regulations that were in motion during their time there, that does indeed come off as quite a hard thing to do â students were to stick to their âquarterâ both in dormitories, during classes, study hall, on Sunday outings, and at table (at first I thought maybe these âquartersâ werenât neccessarily made up of students who all came from the same grade, but this other piece seems to rule out that possibility). This leaves the thirty-minute recesses as the only places where students from different quarters would have gotten a chance to interact with one another (bc they all seemed to have recess at the same time according to the scheduleâŠ). I do however think Robespierre and Desmoulinsâ own testimonies weigh heavier than this. Desmoulins would also go on to admit college friendships with other students we know for a fact can never have been in the same grade as him.
In 1774 and 1775, both Robespierre and Desmoulinsâ names featured on the list of students that had been awarded annual prizes for their hard labors, which means that they, according to the regulations, got presented before the bureau of administration by the principal âto there receive praise and rewards due to their work and the success of their studiesâ together.
After graduating (Robespierre in 1781, Desmoulins in 1785) the two seemingly lost sight of one another, at least we donât have any evidence they corresponded or in other ways kept up contact. Two pieces do however show us they did not forget about each other entirely. The first is a letter dated spring 1786 Camille adressed to the aforementioned Beffroy de Reigny, who in January the same year had openly thanked his âformer study comrade Robespiere [sic]â for sending him two of his works as a gift.
It was noticed lately, as a misfortune attached to the house where we were brought up together, that none of those who had distinguished themselves there fulfilled in the world the hopes that he had first given, that you alone seem happier right now, and we rejoice in your many subscribers. Although the subscribers are your dear and beloved cousins, we can clearly see that you have not forgotten the rest of the family, nor lost sight of the mountain where we were the first to applaud you. The advantageous manner in which you have spoken of M. Robespiere [sic] has charmed us all; up to now, M. JĂ©hanne has missed only one opportunity to provide you with the occasion of doing him justice as well. The joy with which you gave well deserved praise to a comrade reproached me for my conduct towards you, and obliges me to retract.Â
In 1793, Robespierre did in his turn admit to before the revolution have read a poem (that according to Camille had been written in 1787), and felt proud once he realized who the author was:
Remember that at a time when the monarchy was best established on its foundations, Camille, a simple individual, without support, without advocate or patron, a lawyer without a cause on the fourth floor, dared to put into verse the proudest principles of the most determined Republican. Then, in the depths of my province, I learned with secret pleasure that the author was one of my college comrades.
Interestingly, Robespierreâs younger brother Augustin started studying law at Louis-le-Grand in 1784, one year before Camille graduated from said program, although neither would claim to have known the other while at college.
On May 8 1789, Desmoulins authored a letter to his father, telling him about the opening of the Estates General at Versailles three days earlier. Lamenting the fact he himself didnât get elected for it, he writes: âone of my comrades has been more fortunate than I, itâs de Robespierre, deputy from Arras. He has been wise enough to plead in his own province.â The fact Camille was able to recognize Robespierre eight years after their separation (and care about it enough to write it down), could be read as yet another sign their college relationship had at least mattered somewhat, especially since this letter is from before Robespierre had made any kind of name for himself politically. How exactly Camille found out Robespierre had been elected (did he recognize his face in a crowd, accidentally run into him or just see it written down somewhere?) is however unknown.
After the ceremony, Camille did however head back to Paris, while Robespierre would remain at Versailles up until October 1789. On July 23 1789, the latter writes to his friend Antoine Buissart that he has been shown the stormed Bastille after the king and the National Assemblyâs brief visit to Paris following July 14, but thereâs no evidence he saw Desmoulins during it, or even that he knew he had been the one inciting the storming at this point.
In the beginning of September, Camille released Discours de la Lanterne aux Parisiens, the first of his works which he mentioned Robespierre in:
I would at least congratulate M. de Robespierre for opposing with all his strength the release of the Duke of Vauguyon. M. Glaizen opposed it in an even more eloquent manner. Member of the criminal committee, he resigned immediately. This speaks of conviction. Honor to MM. Glaizen and Robespierre!
Later the same month, Camille went back to Versaille after having been invited by Mirabeau, and the day after his arrival (September 20 1789) he could write to tell his father: âIf you hear bad things said about me, console yourself with the memory of the testimony that MM. de Mirabeau, Target, M. de Robespierre, Gleizal and more than two hundred deputies gave me.â Camille stayed with Mirabeau for two weeks before returning to Paris, but thereâs no proof he saw Robespierre any more times during his stay.
When Robespierre too went to Paris soon thereafter, he settled in an apartment on Rue de Saintonge, today a 45 minute walk away from Camilleâs erstwhile home on Rue de Tournon 19. Despite finally living in the same city again, itâs not until March 6 1790 Iâve discovered something more concreate tying the two together. Itâs a note from Desmoulins to Robespierre, found listed in MĂ©moires de lâAcadĂ©mie des sciences, agriculture, commerce, belles-lettres et arts du dĂ©partement de la Somme (1907) as one of many Desmoulins related text published in Journal de Vervins during the summer of 1884. Unfortunately, I canât find this journal online anywhere, so I donât know what the note was about.
In November 1789, Camille founded his very first journal â RĂ©volutions de France et de Brabant â that would run until the fall of 1791. Searching for the term âRobespierreâ in the seven digitalized volumes of the journal, I find Camille talking about him around 85 times. The first time is in number 4 (released December 19 1789), where he makes sure to underline the fact that he and Robespierre had been âcollege comradesâ:
âŠIf my dear college comrade, Robespierre, had said the same thing to the viscount, he wouldnât have been able to respond like Saint Peter.
This was the first in a long series of homages Desmoulinsâ journal would pay Robespierre. Throughout the years, he called him among other things âThe last of Romans and my heroâ (number 41, September 6 1790), âSo pure, so inflexible, the peak of patriotismâ (number 46, October 11 1790), âthe living commentary on the Declaration of Rightsâ (number 65, February 21 1791) and âimmutableâ (number 76, May 9 1791). Desmoulins was also second in giving Robespierre the famous nickname âthe Incorruptible.â Not even Robespierreâs erstwhile boyfriend brother in arms PĂ©tion, where Camille still admitted it was impossible to speak of one without thinking about the other (number 55, December 13 1790) got the same almost saintlike treatment. While Robespierre got praised by several journals positive to the revolution, I donât think it would be that unfair to say Desmoulins was his cheerleader number one during at least its first few years. Several times, Robespierre also sent Camille speeches and letters of his which the latter willfully inserted into his journal (1, 2, 3).
Iâve found only one time RĂ©volutions de France et de Brabant had something negative to say about Robespierre, and it is in number 27, released on May 31 1790, and conviently enough, the next piece of information regarding Desmoulins and Robespierreâs relationship that I know of:
I wasted my time preaching the republic. The republic and democracy are now down, and it is unfortunate for an author to shout in the desert and to write pages as worthless, as little listened to, as the motions of J. F. Maury. Since I despair of overcoming insurmountable currents, tied for six months to the bench of rowers, perhaps I would do well to regain the shore, and throw away a useless oar. I should leave Garnery, continue writing RĂ©volutions de France et de Brabant at a discount, without attempting with my librarian, the unequal struggle of Tournon with Prudhomme. But I hear Robespierre call my discouragement corruption, and exclaim that I am sold like the others to the King's wife and to the ministerial party. I must undeceive my dear Robespierre, I must give new proofs of my incorruptibility every week, show that I am as proud a republican as he is, and that when the number of patriots, which is diminishing prodigiously every day, would be reduced to one or two citizens, it is I who would like to remain the last of the Jacobins. [âŠ] How is it that I was accused of being a sold-out journalist, and that I saw Robespierre and L... among my slanderers, when it is so difficult to find proofs of corruption against me? [âŠ] So I could not have my neck wrapped in a handkerchief and complain of esquinancia without being reproached for argyrancia as well. Ungrateful Robespierre!
A week later, June 7 1790, Robespierre authors the following letter to Desmoulins, in response to something the latter has written about him in the number of his journal released right after the one quoted above:
Monsieur, I read the following passage regarding the decree from May 22 on the right of war and peace in your (votre) latest number of RĂ©volutions de France et de Brabant: On Saturday, May 22, the little dauphin applauded a decree Mirabeau had put forward with a good sense way beyond his young years. The people applauded too. It led back in triumph Barnave, PĂ©thion [sic], Lameth, d'Aiguillon, Duport, and all the illustrious Jacobins; imagiening itself having just won a great victory, and these deputies had the weakness to maintain it in an error which they enjoyed. Robespierre was more frank, he said to the multitude which surrounded him and stunned them with his beating statement: âWell! gentlemen, what are you congratulating yourself on? the decree is detestable, detestable to the last bit; let's let the brat clap his hands at his window, he knows better than us what he's doing.â I must, monsieur, point out the error in which you have been led on the fact which concerns me in this passage. I told the National Assembly my opinion on the principles and consequences of the decree which regulates the exercise of the right of peace and war; but there I stopped. I did not make the statement you cite in the Tuileries garden; I didnât even speak to the crowd of citizens who gathered in my path as I crossed it. I believe I must disavow this fact: 1, because it is not true; 2, because, however disposed I am to always display in the National Assembly the character of frankness which should distinguish the representatives of the nation, I am not unaware that elsewhere there is a certain reserve which suits them. I hope, monsieur, that you will be good enough to make my statement public through your newspaper, especially since your magnanimous zeal for the cause of liberty will make it a law for you not to leave bad citizens the slightest of pretext to calumniate the energy of the defenders of the people. De Robespierre.
Thereâs certainly not much in this letter implying Robespierre is friends with Desmoulins, or even knows him as anything more than a journalist⊠All readersâ letters published within RĂ©volutions de France et de Brabant up to this point have however used vouvoiement and been about as formal, so itâs possible Robespierre (who, according to his conserved correspondence, doesnât use a particulary warm tone with anyone around this period save his arragois friend Antoine Buissart) is trying to mimick them. Itâs also not impossible his tone had something to do with what Desmoulins had written about him a week earlier. Desmoulins did however not let himself become influenced by it when publishing and responding to the letter in the the next number (June 14 1790) of his journal. He even chose to adress Robespierre in tutoiment, even though Robespierre addressed him with vouvoiement, and despite having adressed every other correspondent to the journal with vouvoiement up until this point.
If I insure this errata, my dear Robespierre, it is only to show your (ton) signature to my fellow journalists, and teach them not to cripple a name that patriotism has illustrated. There is in your letter a dignity, a seanatorial gravity which wounds college friendship. Youâre rightly proud of the laticlave of deputy to the National Assembly. This noble pride pleases me, and what annoys me even more is that not everyone feels their dignity as you do? But you should at least greet a former comrade with a slight nod. I love you none the less, because you are faithful to principles, even if you are not so faithful to friendship. However, why demand this retraction from me? When I would have slightly altered the truth in the anecdote I told, since this fact is honorable for you, since I doubtless said what you thought, if not your expressed words, instead of disavowing the journalists so curtly, you had to content yourself with saying like the cousin, in the charming comedy of the supposed dead man: âAh! Monsieur, vous brodez!â You are not one of those weak men of whom J.J Rousseau speaks, who do not want anyone to be able to repeat what they think, and who only speak the truth in their negligee or in their dressing gown, and not in the National Assembly or in the Tuileries.
According to Brissot, the incident did however end up making both college comrades rather piqued against one another. In his memoirs (1793), he wrote the following about it:
I reread this letter to Camille, which chance put before my eyes at this moment, and of which Robespierre himself had brought me a copy to print so that it would have more publicity. It is dated June 8 [sic] 1790 [âŠ] Doesn't everything in this letter, on which I can't help but dwell yet, bear the character of a vague uneasiness, of a singular timidity? I remember on this occasion Robespierre with his fears and his scruples which he could not dissimulate. Desmoulins' thoughtlessness alarmed him; he didn't know what to think of it. Was this young man paid to write such follies, and thus compromise the friends of reason and liberty? The deputy's response to the journalist was dignified, proud; it was indeed the style of a patriot. Royalism? what clumsiness! [âŠ] Before inserting this complaint in my diary, I warned Camille, whose susceptibility I knew. His answer was made, he left it to me; but I thought I was agreeable to him by publishing neither this answer nor the complaint of which it was the object. He seemed to me strongly piqued against Robespierre. Was it in this tone that a college friend had written to him? What had this rose-watered Brutus to blame, and what power was he so afraid of displeasing? However, Cassius did not want to anger Brutus. Desmoulins always sought to stick to celebrities, to Danton as to Mirabeau, to Linguet as to Robespierre; he would have sought out Marat, had that wolf been able to live with someone in society. Moreover, Robespierre's letter, like his signature, struck his mind, and his answer smelt a bit of taunting.
If the relationship got damaged, it was however not enough to stop Robespierre from saving Camille after an arrest warrant had been issued against him during the session of the National Assembly held on August 2 1790:
M. Malouet: âŠIs Camille Desmoulins innovative? He will justify himself. Is he guilty? I will be the accuser of him and of all those who take up his defense. Let him justify himself, if he dares. (A voice rises from the stands: âYes, I dare.â A part of the surprised assembly rises; the rumor spreads in the assembly that it is M. Camille Desmoulins who has spoken; the president gives the order to arrest the individual who uttered these words). NâŠ: I ask that we deliberate beforehand on this arrest. M. Robespierre: I believe that the provisional order given by the President was indispensable; but must you confuse imprudence and inconsideration with crime? He heard himself accused of a crime against the Nation, it is difficult for a sensitive man to remain silent. It cannot be supposed that he intended to disrespect the Legislative Body. Humanity agrees with justice, pleads in its favour. I ask for his release, and that we move on to the agenda. The president annonces that M. Camille Desmoulins has escaped and canât be arrested. The Assembly pass onto the order of the day.
Desmoulins was grateful Robespierre had stepped in, and in number 38 (August 16 1790) of his journal, he described the incident in the following way:
My dear Robespierre did not abandon me at this moment. By condemning me at first he conciliated all minds, and then brought them back with great art by developing this motion: if it is someone other than M. Desmoulins who raised his voice, this breach of assembly wheat must be punished; if it is him; it is difficult for an accused who does not feel guilty not to accept the challenge of his accuser. I ask for his release. Robespierre was applauded.
When FrĂ©ron (who we know was on friendly terms with at least Camille) described the very same incident in his journal lâOrateur du Peuple, he did refer to Robespierre as â[Camilleâs] friendâ so perhaps their relationship had indeed gotten better since Robespierreâs impersonal letterâŠ
Three numbers later (September 6 1790) Desmoulins writes about having given Robespierre a book written by abbot Jean-Joseph Rive:
O most learned and most patriotic of abbots! I read your letters, in which you always start out angry with me, and in which you end up smothering me with patriotic semens, and I gave your dear Robespierre your 700 pages in-80. But when do expect us to find the time to read your little novel?
Pierre Villiers, who in his Souvenirs dâun dĂ©portĂ©Â (1802) claimed to have served as Robespierreâs secretary April-November 1790, wrote that the latter during this period âthought the highest (il a fait le plus grand cas) of Camille Desmoulins. He's going too fast, Robespierre said to me, he'll break his neck; Paris wasn't made in a day, it takes more than a day to undo.â
On December 11 1790, Camille was given permission to marry Lucile Duplessis. Two weeks later, December 27, Robespierre, alongside PĂ©tion, Brissot, Mercier, Sillery, Danton, Duport du Tertre, Barnave, Viefville des Essarts, Charles Lameth, Alexandre Lameth, Mirabeau, Andrieu and Deviefville, signed the coupleâs wedding contract (1, 2). Two days after that, the wedding ceremony was held in Ăglise Saint-Sulpice. Writing to his father about it, Camille could report that the witnesses this time had been âPĂ©thion [sic] and Robespierre, the elite of the National Assembly, M. de Sillery, who wanted to be there, and my two collegues Brissot de Warville and Mercier, the elite among the journalists.â The priest presiding over the ceremony was Denis BĂ©rardier, who from 1778 to 1787 had been Camille and Robespierreâs college principal, after which he had been elected to represent the clergy at the Estates general. In the previously cited letter to his father, Camille writes that BĂ©rardier during the ceremony held a speech that moved both him, Lucile and all of the witnesses to tears. An anonymous anecdote from 1792 similarily claims Camille began to cry out of joy during the ceremony, only this time Robespierre, instead of crying along with him, responded: âdonât cry, you hypocrite!â It was however dismissed as apocryphal by Desmoulinsâ latest biographer. After the ceremony, Camille reports that groom, bride, the witnesses and BĂ©rardier all went over to his place to have dinner together with Lucileâs parents and sister.Â
A little more than a month after the wedding, Robespierre, impatient to see a speech of his printed in RĂ©volutions de France et de Brabant, sent the following letter to Camille. This is the first time in his conserved correspondence where he doesnât use vouvoiement, and it wonât be until February 1793 that he does so again (though I donât have any appreciation on whether adressing someone in third-person is less formal or not):
Paris, February 14 1791 I point out to Monsieur Camille Demoulins [sic] that neither the beautiful eyes nor the fine qualities of the charming Lucile are reasons for not announcing my work on the national guard which has been given to him and of which I send him a copy if necessary. At this moment there is no object more pressing or more important than the organization of the National Guards. At least that is what the citizens of Marseilles think, of whom I am here attaching a decree relating to my speech. I beg Camille not to mislead himself and to try to also send me back the letters from Avignon and the replies which I gave him. Robespierre
Camille obliged, printing the speech a week later in number 65 (February 21 1791) of his journal. It happened to be Discours sur lâorganisation des gardes nationales, in which Robespierre becomes the first person ever to use the three words âlibertĂ©, Ă©galitĂ©, fraternitĂ©â as a slogan. But it was Camille who in July 1790 had been the first to bring the three words together as a formula. Robespierre and Desmoulins can therefore be said to hold the shared responsibility for the invention of what today is Franceâs national motto.
Five days after Camille had published Robespierreâs speech, February 26, Madame Chalabre wrote to the latter that âThe patriot Camille, in his last speech, paints with a charming naturalness, a truly original precision, the character of your talents. One would think that the genius of the good and unfortunate Jean-Jacques inspired him; it is of such a delicate touch; he shed so many tears reading this passage! Good Camille, you deserve the happiness which I hope you will enjoy with your lovely companion.â A week later, March 3, Sillery writes to Camille that âMadame de Sillery is coming to dine at my house with PĂ©tion and Robespierre, I dare to ask your lovable and beautiful wife to too do me this honor. [âŠ] Come, my dear Camille, if you have ever found yourself in a pure and exact democracy, it will be eight oâclock on Sunday when I hope to embrace you.â
In number 79 (June 4 1791) of his journal, Camille praises the âsimplicityâ of Robespierre âgoing by foot from his home on rue Saintonge to the National Assembly and dining for 30 sols,â implying they are on good enough terms for him to know those details about him. A few weeks later, June 21, Paris woke up to the discovery that the royal family had disappeared from the capital during the night. In number 82 (June 27 1791) of his journal, Camille would describe in detail what he had been up to during this day:
I left [Lafayette] hoping that maybe the immense career that the King's flight had opened to his ambition had brought him back to the popular party, and arrived at the Jacobins, striving to believe in his demonstrations of friendship and patriotism, and to fill myself with this persuasion, which, despite my efforts, flowed from my mind through a thousand memories, as through a thousand outlets. The only man who has my full confidence, Robespierre, had the floor. See here a speech full of truths of which I havenât lost a single one, and tremble: [he then transcribes a speech Robespierre holds on the flight of the royal family] How shall I express this abandon, this accent of patriotism and indignation with which he pronounced it! He was listened to with that religious attention from which we collect the last words of the dying. It was, in fact, like his testament that he came to deposit in the archives of the club. I did not hear this speech with as much composure as I report at this moment, where the arrest of the former King has changed the face of affairs. I was moved to tears in more than one place, and when this excellent citizen, in the middle of his speech, spoke of the certainty of paying with his head for the truths he had just pronounced, I cried out: we will all die before you!
Apparently no one ever taught Camille to be careful with what you wish for.
In the same number, Desmoulins also describes how, the next day, he and several others brought a woman who had information to give on the escape attempt to the Jacobin club, in the hopes that her testimony would get Robespierre to denounce Lafayette and Bailly. Once arrived, they talk to him and Buzot, who both quickly become convinced of the high credibility of the witness, but are taken aback by the measures proposed to be taken. âWe will be,â they said, âpushed back from the tribune, referred to the research committee, and our accusation will be entered in this mortuary register of denunciations.â After a while PĂ©tion shows up and definitely discourages Robespierre, who, according to Camille, âat first was quite disposed to take away the reputation of Bailly and La Fayette via assault.â
The escape attempt resulted in the demonstration and shootings on Champ de Mars on July 17 1791. On the evening of the same day as these events, we find Desmoulins and Robespierre at the Jacobin Club, both speaking of what had just happened. Shortly thereafter Camille went incognito for a while, hiding out at Lucileâs parentsâ country house at Bourg-la-Reine until finally resurfacing in Paris again in early September. In the meantime, Robespierre had changed address and gone to live with the Duplay family on Rue Saint-HonorĂ© 398, today a 35 minute walk from Rue du ThĂ©Ăątre 1 (today Rue de lâOdeon 28) where Camille and Lucile had moved shortly after their wedding. In her old days, Ălisabeth Duplay authored a list over the people who most commonly would frequent her familyâs house during the revolution.
The Lamenths and Pétion in the early days, quite rarely Legendre, Merlin de Thionville and Fouché, often Taschereau, Desmoulins and Teault, always Lebas, Saint-Just, David, Couthon and Buonarotti.
However, judging by an anecdote told by the same Ălisabeth, Desmoulinsâ visits went from being frequent to rare after a certain incident (that I would guess happened in 1793 considering Ălisabeth still places his overall visits under the âoftenâ section):
One day Camille familiarly enters the Duplay house; Robespierre was absent. He starts a conversation with the youngest of the carpenter's daughters; as he retires, Camille hands her a book he had under his arm. âElizabeth,â he said to her, âdo me the service of holding onto this work; I will come back for it.â No sooner had Desmoulins left than the young girl curiously half-opened the book entrusted to her custody: what was her confusion, seeing paintings of revolting obscenity pass under her fingers. She blushes: the book falls. All the rest of the day Elizabeth was silent and troubled; Maximilian noticed it; drawing her aside. "What's the matter with you," he asked her, "you look so worried to me?" The young girl lowered her head, and as an answer went to fetch the book with the odious engravings which had offended her sight. Maximilien opened the volume and turned pale. "Who gave you this?" he asked in a voice shaking with anger. The girl frankly told him what had happened. "Itâs fine," Robespierre went on, "don't talk about what you've just told me to anyone: I'll make it my business. Don't be sad anymore. I'll let Camille know. It is not what enters involuntarily through the eyes that defiles chastity: it is the evil thoughts that one has in the heart.â He admonished his friend severely, and from that day on, visits from Camille Desmoulins became very rare.
In a diary entry entry from June 1792, Lucile seemingly confirms the connection she and her husband had with Robespierreâs host family when she writes âI went with C(amille) and little Duplay (most likely Ălisabethâs little brother Jacques-Maurice) to an old madwomanâs.â
On September 30 1791, the National Assembly was shut down and Robespierre left Paris for Arras, where he arrived on October 14. He was back in the capital again on November 28. A little more than two weeks later, December 16, Brissot, held his first speech in favor of going to war. As known, Robespierre opposed this, holding his first speech against the idea just two days later. Desmoulins quickly joined his side, holding a similar speech on December 25. When Robespierre held his third big speech on the subject, on January 11, Desmoulins, who listened to the reading, was enthusiastic and the next day he wrote the following letter to the âpatriots of Millauâ (cited in Camille et Lucile Desmoulins: un RĂȘve de RĂ©publique):
At the moment I am still enthusiastic. This speech will be reread in all sections, in all clubs and in all patriots' houses; everywhere one will admire and especially love the author, but what would have happened had you heard him speak yourself! Those who were his college comrades, and even those who last year were his colleagues in the National Assembly, have not recognized Robespierre for some time. From a man of spirit, he became eliquent, and now he is sublime at intervals. It seems that he grows by one foot every month, as it is true that the home of talent is the heart. When, two years ago, I presented him, in my journal, as a Cato, I was far from foreseeing that he would never rise to the height of the talent of Demosthenes.
A month later, Desmoulins also aimed a blow against Brissot with the release of the pampleth Jean Pierre Brissot dĂ©masquĂ©. While said pampleth definitely outlined who Camille considered his enemies, it also made clear who were his champions, with Robespierre, whoâs name got mentioned nine times throughout, taking up the forefront:
This true patriot (RĆderer) has not forgiven me, him and his cabal, for loving Robespierre, my college friend, venerable, great in my eyes, although it has been said that there was no great man for his valet-de-chambre, nor for his college friend and the witness of his youth.
In a letter written shortly thereafter to François Suleau, another one of their former college comrades, Desmoulins claimed that â[Robespierre] sees me as invulnurable after the proof of incorruptibility that I produced in my latest writing to Brissot.â Apropos of Desmoulins still seeing Suleau, a firm royalist, he added: âI cannot blame my friend Robespierre when he tells me that he would run away from my house on seeing a notable from Coblentz (Suleau) enter.âÂ
War was nevertheless declared on April 20 1792. The very same day, Camille and FrĂ©ron, who had both had to quit their journals in the aftermath of the massacre on Champ de Mars, signed a contract for creating a new one â La Tribune des Patriotes. The first number was meant to be released on May 7, but the following day, their publisher Charles Frobert Patris told Camille he had refused to print it, on the charge of it being âa libel.â Camille reported this to the Jacobin club the very same day, and the following session Patris came forward to explain himself. Things did however not go the way heâd planned, and in a pampleth released shortly afterwards, Patris wrote the following regarding the session:
How come you (Robespierre) tolerated that the vile informer (Camille), to whom I was answering, seeing the club cover with long applause the hard truths that I was beginning to tell him, left his place to go sit down behind you, pulled you by the tailcoat and spoke to you in a low voice and with an air of intelligence! Didn't you have to feel that such intimacy would favor him, and turn to my prejudice?
Soon thereafter, La Tribune des Patriotes could finally be released. This work too was in part meant to protect and advocate for Robespierre, starting already in the first number:
O my dear Robespierre, I gave you this name (the Incorruptible) three years ago! Let people re-read my writings: at the time of my highest admiration for the Mirabeaus, the Lafayettes, the Lameths, and so many others, I always set you apart, I always placed your probity, character and soul above all; and I have seen that the public, while learning from my writings, has hitherto confirmed my judgments, six months or a year after I had made them. Since degenerate friends of truth come to the aid of the impotence of our means to defray the cost of this journal, Fréron and I will not abandon you in the breach, in the midst of a cloud of enemies. The efforts of all these false patriots relentless today - against you alone, we will divide them, by drawing on us their hatred, and by fighting at your side, not for a man, not for you, but for the cause of the people, the equality of the constitution, which has been attacked in you.
Desmoulins and FrĂ©ron had originally planned to have the journal run for at least a year, however, it failed to catch an audience and was put down already after four numbers. Robespierreâs name did however still get mentioned a total of 40 times throughout the journal, always in a positive light.
On July 6 1792, Lucile gave birth to a son who received the name Horace. The idea that Robespierre was his godfather would appear to be nothing but a myth seeing as the baptism record doesnât mention any godparents but only two witnesses â neither of which is Robespierre but instead Laurent Lecointre and Merlin de Thionville. After the good days of the relationship were over, both Lucile and her mother would however contemplate over Robespierre having held Horace in his arms on multiple occasions, the former writing: âYou (Robespierre) who have smiled at my son and whom his infantile hands have carassed so many timesâŠâ and the latter asking if he still remembered âthe caresses you lavished on little Horace, how you delighted to hold him upon your knee.â
Three days after his birth, Horace was sent off to a wetnurse, while Lucile soon thereafter went to her parentsâ country house to rest up. Camille remained in Paris working on a speech that he delivered on July 24. A few days before it he reported to Lucile that âI dined at Robespierreâs today and talked ever so much about Rouleau (nickname for Lucile), Rouleau, my poor Rouleau.â Lucile returned from the countryside on August 8. Four days later, after the Insurrection of August 10, Camille was made secretary by the new Minister of Justice Danton. After a week, the three went to live at HĂŽtel de Bourvallais, just a six minute walking distance away from the Duplay house, and where, in Lucileâs own words, âwe spent three months quite cheerfully.â
The trial of the king started around the same time Camille and Lucile returned to their original apartment. Robespierre and Camille once again fought side by side for the same goals â this time for death and against an appeal to the people. In number 2 of his journal La Defenseur de la Constitution, Robespierre inserted a speech Camille had made on the latter of these two questions.
On March 26 1793, Desmoulins and Robespierre were both elected for the so called Commission of Public Safety, alongside 23 others. The commission, consisting of both fervent montagnards and girondins, was however off to a rocky start, and already on April 6 it was put to death and replaced by the Committee of Public Safety, which neither Desmoulins nor Robespierre was on.
On May 17 1793, Desmoulins announced the release of his new pampleth lâHistoire des Brissotins to the Jacobins. We know that Robespierre had had a hand in the creation of this pampleth through a note inserted in Camilleâs Lettre de Camille Desmoulins au gĂ©nĂ©ral Dillon released a few months later:
The true origin of the rigor of the Committee towards you, would it be in a very long note, which was printed following lâHistoire des Brissotins, which Robespierre made me cut out?
The Jacobins published lâHistoire des Brissotins on May 19, and a week later, Robespierre, who for a long time had refused to do so, openly called for an insurrection against âthe corrupt deputiesâ of the National Convention at the Jacobins, a wish he then repeated three days later. Two days after that, the Insurrection of May 31 took place, and on June 2 the Convention voted for the arrest of 29 Girondins. I think it could be argued it was Desmoulins and Robespierre who together had delivered the principal deathblow to this âfaction.â
Nine days after the murder of Marat, July 22 1793, the Jacobin Club tasked Desmoulins, Robespierre, Lepeletier and Dufourny with writing an adress to the French people regarding it. Said adress was printed and read aloud at the club four days later, obviously deploring of the event and praising the murdered. Just one day after that, July 27, Robespierre was elected as member of the Committee of Public Safety. Camille on the other hand remained restless, and on November 1, he wrote to âhis old friendâ to ask to be sent on a mission to Aisne.
I point out to our dear Robespierre that there is no impediment by law to me going to my department. Choudieu and Ricord, who are in theirs, Barras, and so many others, prove that the decree of which Billaud-Varennes spoke yesterday either does not exist or is not being executed. So I always recommend to him, as Lejeune's assistant, the historian Lucceius, reminding him of the custom of the senate of Rome, which never failed, when one of its members wanted to spend a week in Greece or Sicily, to see his father, to deliver to him, honoris curĂĄ, letters of credence, and the title of commissioner, or of legatus, which did not prevent him, on the way, from deserving well of the republic, and from gaining the vasarium. His old friend, Camille Desmoulins. To citizen Robespierre, member of the Committee of Public Safety.
As can be seen, Desmoulins adresses Robespierre in third person here, just like Robespierre had done to him two years earlier. These letters are the only examples of these two using third person that Iâm aware of, almost making you suspect it was a conscious choice they made of adressing the other like that. Desmoulins did however not obtain any mission, but remained in Paris, as did Robespierre.
On December 5 1793 was released the first number of Desmoulinsâ new journal Le Vieux Cordelier. According to what he wrote in said number, it was after having heard Robespierre and Danton speak at the Jacobins on December 3 that he decided to pick up his pen again â âI leave my office and my armchair, where I had all the leisure to follow, in detail, this new system of our enemies, of which Robespierre only presented the outline, his occupations at the Committee of Public Safety not allowing him to embrace it in its entirety like me.â
 Like with lâHistoire des Brissotins, Camille had let Robespierre proofread and give his approval of the number before it got sent to the publisher. He did the same thing again for the second number, released on December 9, that concerned itself with the topic of dechristianization, denouncing Anacharsis Cloots and Anaxagoras Chaumette for their role in it. These thoughts were shared by Robespierre, who had spoken for liberty of cults on both November 21 and 28 and December 5 and December 6, and would go on to get Cloots expelled from the Jacobins when the latter passed through its scrutiny test on December 12. Two days later, the turn had come to Camille to go through the very same examination. He was at first questioned on his friendship with the general Arthur Dillon and for having stated that the Girondins âdied as republicansâ the day they were condemned. After Desmoulins had justified himself, stating among other things that âa well marked fatality willed that, among the sixty [sic] people who signed my wedding contract, I only have two friends left â Danton and Robespierre. All the others have emigrated or been guillotined,â Robespierre took to the floor and, after reproaching Camille for having been on friendly terms with Mirabeau, Dillon, LamarliĂšre and the Lameth brothers, made sure his friend passed the test. To ensure it, he first recited from heart a long poem Camille had written in 1787, the verses of which âstruck me so hard back then, that they have been ingraved in my memory,â and then said the following:
The manner in which Camille expressed himself at a time when some great patriots of today trembled, perhaps even cringed, before the tyrant; these are character traits that must be taken into account when judging a man. It is true that no one better than he justifies the proverb of the peoples living on the banks of the Guadalquivir and the Tagus: so and so was brave on such a day. Camille, stricken with thoughts of death, constantly sees the guillotine before his eyes; he imagines that because several of his friends have perished by the last torture, the same fate awaits him. Here is the character of Desmoulins: easy to let himself be warned, he quickly believes in the signs of patriotism that he perceives; but is he undeceived? His love for public affairs makes him tear the veil; he drags in the mud the cheats he had placed under the canopy; it is thus that he treated Mirabeau, the Lameths, and the Brissotins in recent times. The Girondin faction wanted to attract Camille to their party; Sillery was charged with this role. The famous Pamela appeared before Desmoulins, accompanied with an enchanting voice the sounds of a melodious lute; Camille, insensitive to the sting, faithful to his wife, faithful to republican principles, disdained the attractions of this new Circe, of this second Herodiade. Desmoulins, the first of all, mounted at the Palais Royal on the unsteady boards of a tottering table, preached patriotism, pistol in hand; he rendered great services to the Revolution. His energetic and easy pen can still serve it usefully, but it is necessary that, more circumspect in the choice of his friends, he must break any pact with impiety, that is to say, with the aristocracy; on these conditions, I request the admission of Camille Desmoulins.
The next part in the reblog.
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thinkinâ bout you
in which harry owns a flower shop and has a major crush on a girl who comes in to buy flowers every once in a while (and heâs too shy to ask for her number)Â
word count: 17.3k
paring: florist!h and y/n
warnings: just some pinning and lustful yearning. m for mature...
authorâs note: iâve been working on this forever. not to pick favâs but i think florist!h comes second to sl23... hes just so.......well, youâll see!!
*Â Â *Â Â *Â Â *Â Â *Â Â *
When Harry was given the option to go on a playdate with his car-loving and dirty-nailed schoolmates or spending the weekend at his nanâs house, he would often pick the latter.Â
He preferred to spend his afternoons frolicking with her Siamese kitty in her wild-flower filled garden, sunbathing in the open grass, or napping on a quilted blanket under the large, round oak tree, with the kitty nestled into his tummy, keeping him warm. When he woke in the arms of his nan as she carried him inside the house for a glass of cool lemonade, he bore a band of pink sunburn over his button nose, and the blue and white striped Mickey shirt was sticking to the areas where his furry friend had provided an extra heat.Â
So, it was safe to say that from the start, Harryâs tastes werenât what could be considered âaverageâ or ânormalâ or âstraightâ for a heterosexual male of his age in current society.Â
Not that he ever valued those opinions, but their impressions rang in the back of his loving head when the women who he brought to the comfort of his home made hurtful âjokingâ comments on how âpeculiarâ his choice of decor was or giving him prolonged strange looks before shaking their heads and yanking their clothes off so that they landed in a forgotten heap in some unimportant corner of his room.Â
Granted, he still got a good shag, but it wasnât enough to fulfill his desires regarding any actions associated with relationships. He wanted someone warm and soft and kind. Someone who wouldnât judge his home, his music choices, his clothing, or anything else about him. A girlfriend, not a fuck.Â
Long ago, heâd stopped caring about what others said about him. Adopting this mindset had given him some of the happiest and healthiest moments of his life (albeit occasionally, doubts merged with the ghastly shadows of his loneliness). Business at his flower shop increased as his charm increased with positivity, and a new life within him bloomed like a baby rose bud when he accepted that being single was okay. The ribbons of his bouquets bouncing with an added umf and the mist that landed on his skin when he changed the water in the flower buckets only enhanced the golden hue of his skin.Â
Harry even took to renovating his home a bit.Â
 Coincidentally, his apartment was located on the floor above his flower stop, and contained a significant amount of singular flowers in vases or bouquets in empty corners to prove it. An array of pastel colors smeared on the once blank walls. Bambi pink in his bedroom, sage green in his kitchen, and a French blue in his living room. The couch was a suede papaya three-seater with black and white checkered pillows, and the coffee table was an emerald-tiled piece standing on top of a geometric lavender carpet, a soft contrast against the dark oak of his floorboards. Harryâs taste in pop-culture, art, and literature was displayed on the frames hanging off his walls. Pictures and posters of his favorite pieces like Matisseâs Blue Nudes and Goldfish and The Dance II. An enhanced, enlarged photo of maraschino cherries and a raven haired pin-up girl. Another glass table by the end of the couch held a silver candlestick and a small statue.
Sometimes, the miniature Greek statue he bought at a thrift store of a man with his nakedness pure and unobscured to the viewers' eyes made his dick bloat against the seams of his pants. If he stared at it for too long, his eyes drawn to the softened cock between thighs that looked so flesh-like even though it was carved out of some clay or ceramic material, his mind would travel to sensual, honey-red places that he hadnât been in so long. Harryâs imagination explored- as cheesy as it sounds- the sexual aspects of the male genitalia, and therefore his own sexual expeditions and how much he missed giving or receiving a good fuck. More often than not, he ended up with himself in his fist, forehead sparkling with perspiration under the candle lights in his room as his thighs and abdomen clenched with every buck of his yearning hips.Â
The doorknob of his room was in the shape of an eye, the iris colored a brilliant blue. His king bed- no, frame, just a minimalist white base, pushed up against the wall with two tables on either side, both of them loaded articulately with vintage trinkets and ceramic ring trays shaped like seashells to hold his jewelry. His bedsheets were a stylish combination of pastel colors; lilac comforter, mint and sky pillows. Previously, they had been snow white sheets with strawberry print, but a woman he brought over said they looked like the sheets her five-year-old niece had.Â
He changed them the week after that.
On the windowsill, a pot in the shape of a white, blue-eyed kitty with vines of string of hearts kissing the floor. A mirror in the shape of a heart with a pink trim besides the lightswitch, above his brown dresser. In the corner, a bookshelf stuffed with books that spilled over the seams, and perpendicular to it, the home of his pet chameleon, Owen (he wanted a cat, but when he went to the pet store and saw the dehydrated creature, he couldnât leave him there). A 16 x 16 x 30 inch tank filled with a branch that cut across halfway. It was full of all the things he might need, maybe even too much of it, but it didnât matter because when Harry was home Owen spent most of his time hanging off the collars of his shirts or snuggled in the ruffles of his hooded sweatshirt on his shoulder. The small, color changing friend adored his owner, and only morphed into a mild red color when Harry didnât feed him more mango.Â
The renovations occurred in his bathroom; a cherry-red covering the walls because it looked boring before (at least in his opinion). The gold piping of the sink accentuated nicely with the darker color, and the sun seemed brighter when it streamed in through the window above his ceramic claw-footed tub. Owen particularly liked the misty showerhead stall in the corner, and as long as he kept his eyes to himself, Harry didnât mind it if his green friend wrapped around the showerhead and enjoyed the mimicked tropical atmosphere.Â
For awhile now, it had been just him and his chameleon (and maybe his mumâs cat if she was going out of town and needed a sitter) but he didnât mind it.Â
He got to meet new people everyday within the parameters of Hâs Garden, and they all tended to overshare when it came to buying a bouquet. âMy wife just had our son, want to see a picture?â or âmy boyfriend and I have our anniversary on Saturdayâ and even âmy sister had plastic surgery so me and my dad need something that says âcongrats you look like Kim Kardashain nowâ how âbout it?âÂ
Stories ranged from sweet, to grotesque, to sad, to funny, and sometimes even evil- Harry didnât like customers that gave flowers as a âfuck youâ. He thought it was a waste of beauty and sacrifice. Flowers were living things that had their lives cut short in order to provide momentary satisfaction and life long memories to the receiver, not bitter feelings of revenge. Although it was still business, it pained him that such a pretty arrangement be misused. It was one of the cons of his work. He created what he considered to be masterpieces, and had no control over where they would end up, whether it be as a centerpiece for a candlelit dinner, or in the trash after the apology for a strong argument hadnât been enough.Â
However, Harry couldnât deny that he didnât love his job, because he did.Â
When he turned 16, heâd determined that he wanted a peaceful life with a job that wouldnât bore him. He wanted to be as stress free as possible, with his spirituality as a prominent highlight in his lifestyle. When he turned 18, he had determined that he wanted to be a florist, and began to save up to open his own shop with the occasional help of his friends and sister. He refused to take anything from his mother because he wanted to be the one giving her gifts and money and everything good after all of her sacrifices in raising him. Call him a mommaâs boy. Harry loved his mother.Â
Online seminars and college classes became his best friend, teaching him everything he needed to know about accounting, stocks, and how to keep his business going. He was a businessman first, florist second. During the slow seasons (the start of winter and an awkward half-week between summer and spring) he relied on his investments to triple-ensure that he had enough money to stay afloat.Â
On his 22nd birthday, as a gift to himself, he signed the lease to the building that housed all of the pretty plants in temporary buckets full of flower food and water, and hired a graphic designer to design the cursive, golden letters that spelled out the name of his shop above the front door.Â
 Now, three years later, he lived as happy as can be.Â
And he wasnât lonely anymore.Â
Well, if you wanted to be technical, his relationship status was still a checkmark over the box labeled âsingleâ, but his heart couldnât be fluttering any harder at the sight of one of his regular customers, and she was there, creeping around in his brain to keep him company.Â
She was the complete opposite of every girl heâd ever been with. She was sweet, kind, funny, and didnât judge him for the way he dressed, or his profession. In fact, they bonded over things that previous women had⊠slyly berated him for. The color of his nails, the lace of his collar, the pattern of his flared pants, and even the sheep on his baby blue sweater vest. Â
She stole his heart the moment she walked through his door with a soft smile on her face, a sparkling gleam in her warm eyes, and placed it in her pocket the moment she said, âit smells lovely in here!â
Harry, awestruck and blushing because well, she was pretty and wore a shade of purple that somehow made her hair look so soft. Two strands of hair were pinned at the back of her head, essentially keeping the rest of it away from her face save for the few baby wisps that rested gently against her cheeks like a loverâs caress. The stuttering, stumbling cupidâs-bow-struck fool replied with, âthank you. It would be my pleasure to help you with anything youâd like,â and that had been his name, signed on the dotted line of a soul contract. Only she was not the devil. She was an angel.Â
But even then, it wouldnât matter. If she was the devil, if she was an angel, something in between or something new entirely he wouldnât care because he was half gone for her already.Â
âIn that case,â she smiled, and Harryâs heart sang a melody it never had before. It was like the sun beamed from the spaces between her teeth and tickled the fuzzy spot beneath his earlobe. She had the most amazing voice, tranquil and clear and ethereal. âI just moved into a new apartment and wanted the place to feel like home. I thought maybe flowers would give it a little life.âÂ
He vividly remembers that the color of her cheeks changed to that of what is called a âblushâ, but he didnât know if it was a trick under the light, or a product of his wistful imagination. Her fingers gently skimmed the petals of a rose from itâs bucket near her hip, and one of the straps of the tote bag on her shoulder disrespectfully dropped away from her shoulder. He wanted to simultaneously rush over and fix it for her, and yell at the inanimate object for not being grateful of the fact that it had the opportunity to cling to her shoulder.
But, before either of these inner-conflicts met a sound resolve, her delicate fingers righted what was once wrong, and Harry cleared his throat, embarrassed because heâd stared for a little too long. He wanted so badly to ask for her name and how she liked her eggs in the morning, but instead he said, âthereâs nothing like a bit of something pretty to brighten your day. Did you have something specific in mind?â
He hoped that the meaning of his words wasnât caught on her, or that would be totally embarrassing and âloserâ-like.Â
When she walked out the door with a content smile on her lips, his own heart was beating faster than the flapping of a hummingbirdâs tender wings. He was sure that he had never laid eyes on a pair of lips like hers, neither the feeling that blossomed in his chest at the thought that she might be smiling just for him to see and enjoy.Â
Of course, it was a silly crush. One that clawed and gripped onto his sweaty palms with no sign of letting go. Maybe, Harry thought, it was because he hadnât wet his wick in so long, and the interaction heâd had with her had sparked irrational, poem-inspiring feelings within the love cavern of his ribs. Because how could he fall head over heels with someone he didnât even know? Surely, the swarm of hormone-pumped butterflies in his stomach was the beginning of a dead-end infatuation.Â
Right?Â
Harry went that entire day, appalled at the apparent angel he had the fortune of being in the presence of in her short fall from the tender heavens. He wondered where she placed the flowers she bought (an arrangement he was particularly proud of, full of lilac, delicate stems of lavender, and puffs of babyâs breath wrapped with a white bow) and where that tiny extension of him was. At the entrance of her home, right below the place she rested her hand against as she tugged her shoes off? At the center of her table? Maybe besides her bed? Where she would see the purple petals and white of him as he wrapped it every time she woke up or went to bed? He hoped- as much as it was a romantic thought- that it wasnât the last one. Heâs been so awkward, so pink. A blush on his cheeks he hadnât remembered being there since the time he yelped, startled, at the unexpected pain of a tattoo needle, the artist pointedly peeved. Acting like such a boy.Â
Right before crawling up the steps of his apartment, heart still bleeding with love-blood from the deadly tip of Cupidâs arrows, he made himself a mini version of the bouquet heâd made her, and placed it at the center of his tiled coffee table.Â
*********
A few days trickled by, and the memory of her face drifted in and out of his mind like a giant sway of fabric slowly billowing in the wind. He was just so⊠struck by a slab of awe, stunned by her kind of beauty. Natural, the kind that hooks you in itâs purity, like the golden beams streaming in through transparent curtains on a warm spring afternoon.Â
Her strawberry lips curved elegantly under her nose, and displayed a smile that leaked some sort of heady drug into the air because the air was sweet when he breathed it in. And when he handed the bundle of flowers over to her, the pads of her delicate fingers skimmed the rough ridges of his knuckles. He wondered immediately what kind of moisturizer she used, and if it smelled like honey or lavender or peaches. She smelled sweet. Sweeter than all of the flowers in his colorful soul shop put together. The colors that belong to her, on her person and worn by her, were more captivating than any of the tones that painted the petals on his plants.Â
Owen got a kick out of this whole ordeal, though. Harryâs passionate mood had him divulging in munching and nibbling on things that tasted the way he felt; ambrosial, fresh and pure. It resulted in the purchasing of endless amounts of fruit, with many bites given to the tiny chameleon. Mangoes, strawberries, oranges, grapes, pears (Asian pears, if the store carried them, they were Harryâs favorite), peaches and guavas. The sudden craving for fruit might be explained as just a casual craving, but deep deep down inside, Harry knew that it was because he wanted to replicate the feeling that coursed through his golden veins when she giggled at something she happened to find funny.Â
He wished that he had caught her name. The girl had paid in cash (and left a five dollar tip Harry fawned over), so he couldnât have read it on her card, and he was halfway between charming and awkward that he didnât even think of asking for it until the minute the door closed behind her, bells tinkling in announcement of her exit. He wished for a hundred different things, but he was not the type to live in regret. Not anymore. So after about a week of floundering in her memory, he meditated for an hour, tropical incense on one of his bedside tables, and cleared his mind as best he could.Â
The next morning, he did the same thing. Woke up with heavy limbs, plopped himself down on his blue mat and stretched in various positions, his white boxers hanging low on his hips. His lips and eyes were sticky with sleep, and the back of his nose ached with cold air that he mustâve breathed in throughout the night after forgetting to close the window (again) but the pleasurable twinge of stretching aches between his joints were the perfect way to start his day. They urged his mind to transform into the still surface of water, clear and collected from any unproductive-pinning thoughts towards a girl he would most likely never see again.Â
Even his clothes reflected his refreshed mindset.
Harry donned his favorite pair of flared trousers in an earthy brown color, nestled snugly on his slender hips and around his thighs. The tight fit accentuated the way his back tapered into his waist, glutes shapely and sculpted. A maroon sweater vest that had a teddy bear embroidered on the middle of his chest, the small latte-toned stuffed animal seemingly childish, but on him it only directed attention to the spotlight daze of the velvety heart sheltered underneath his breathless plate. Underneath, a mustard long-sleeve shirt with tiny cherries printed on them. Some straight, some tilted or lopsided. His shoulders and biceps were hidden in the floofy bunches of cloth, anonymity given to the true thickness of his ink slathered skin.Â
He looked like a corduroy dream. A thick milkshake of patterns and colors, but he managed to pull it off.
A tiny gold hoop on his right ear gleamed under the morning sun coming in through the windows and a pearl necklace rested against the downy skin of his throat. Slender fingered tipped with a coat of pure white, with his ring fingers accented in a shimmery pink. Chunky rings adorning the base of his digits; a silver rose, a band of dancing teddy bears (a running theme with him), two gold rings with his initials H and S on one hand, and a simple ruby stud from his graduating class.Â
He looked good, he knew that he looked good, and was ready to begin a bright, healthy, non-pretty-girl-thought-polluted day. Even the old woman had pinched his cheek whom he had been assisting- a regular-had said he looked like a proper ânice boyâ along with âwhen are you going to her a lovely girl to help you run this place, Harry?â. He didnât have the heart to tell her that he had momentarily sworn off women until his broken sentiments healed, and they had a long way to go.Â
In the middle of wrapping a smashing set of tulips and fern stems with a cherry red bow, the bells adorning the top of the door frame dinges, announcing the entrance of another pleasant customer and giving passage to a gust of chilly air. Harry looked up to greet the customer with his usual pleasantries of âwelcome! Iâll be with you in a moment!â, but the words died on his throat in a desperate hussle, just as the little mermaid had given up her voice to meet her gallant prince. Â
It was his own personal little slice of heaven presented to him on the black and white checkered floors of his shop. Hair loose against her shoulders again, eyes cast downwards to inspect a bucket of fresh daisies that tickled the space above her bare knees. How she could wear a skirt in this biting weather, he didnât know, and it partially prevented him from continuing his pursuit of admiring her because the first thought his caring mind jumped too was, âis she cold? And if so, does she need a sweater? Because I will gladly give her one.â His second thought, however, was âhow could someone be that beautiful?â. The third was something along the lines of âall my yoga has gone to shit, and Iâm okay with thatâ.Â
He cleared his throat, tightened the bow around the stems of the flowers in his hands and said, âIâll be with you in a moment, love!â His head bowed, looking at his work because he wasnât sure he could afford the medicals for the paralysis that was sure to take over his meek self if they made eye contact so soon. Harry needed a moment of homeostasis, his soul adjusting to her dulcet presence.Â
The woman he was assisting, Edna, spoke, drawing him out of his daze, but he had been so deeply in thought that he had not heard what she said.Â
âWhat was that?â He asked her. He grabbed Kraft paper from the roll by the register to wrap up her arrangement.Â
âThe girl. You like her?â She was smiling at him, wagging a finger the way his nan used to do when she caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. âDonât lie to me, I recognize that look. Iâve given and received that look many times throughout my life.âÂ
The woman was not wrong. With age, comes wisdom, Harry thought, smiling to himself at being caught. A dimple carves itself into his cheek, nestling onto the space above the corner of his mouth as if he had no choice in the matter. The apples of his cheeks were shadowed with a dusky pink, and the tip of his nose was twitching like a rabbit when it stood on its rear and sniffed the air, only he was coy after just being caught and wanted to avoid the question as much as possible.Â
âIâve got no idea what yâtalking about,â he chuckled, keeping his voice low so that the intriguing stranger in the store didnât hear that their topic of discussion was her. He moved over to the register to ring her up, and even slid in a discount he applied to customers he liked.Â
âNext time I come in,â Edna said, passing Harry her debit card, âI hope to hear that you got her number, dear. Donât let these opportunities pass you up. Life is short. And who knows? She could be the one.â Harry gave her the card back after charging her, and handed her the flowers, too. All the while Edna was grinning at him, shaking her head like she knew something he didnât.Â
âTake care, Edna. And donât forget to change the water every 2 days with the flower packets I placed at the stems,â he reminded her, sweetly wiggling his red-lacquered nails at her retreating woman as butterflies awakened in his stomach in a furious flood of nerves. The girl was looking around, her hands hovering over the up-turned faces of a bundle of lively sunflowers, browsing and quietly humming to herself as she waited.Â
There was no backing out of this, even if he wanted to. And he didnât! He didnât want to back out. The girl was a customer, and he would have to approach her no matter what. But she was so pretty it was also intimidating. He doesnât remember ever being this nervous while approaching someone, especially one he harbored feelings for. His heart was pounding so loud, he was sure it was audible.Â
âHello,â he wanted so badly to add âloveâ at the end of his greeting. âAre yâfinding everything aâright?â He asked her, his hands wringing themselves, palms moist with sweat from his unyielding need to impress her. The pink tip of his tongue poked out to swipe across his full bottom lip, and soon after that his teeth sunk down into it, nibbling with uncertainty. Harry made sure that he was standing straight, body aligned to face hers because in that psychology course he took once, he learned that it was a subconscious tactic to engage interest and pleasant replies to attempts at wooing another.Â
At the sound of his voice, the girl jumped, startled at the sudden vibrations of Harryâs husky voice. Her delicate feet, he noticed, skittered on the floor from her tiny jump, and her doe eyes widened, shouldered rising and falling at a quicker pace than before from the new rush of light fear. When she realizes that itâs just him her hand flattered over the base of her neck and her collarbone in attempts to soothe her racing heart.Â
âMâs sorry,â he whispers, his hand clamping over his mouth, and then lowering to his chin when he speaks again, âdidnât mean to scare yâlove.â This time he canât restrict himself. It comes so naturally, like the endearment was meant for her, and when a flush covers the bridge of her nose his first instinct is to coo at her for looking so cute. The second is a surge of guilt for having scared her to such an extent.Â
âItâs okay,â she says, a little out of breath. The blush on her face was partly because she was embarrassed at her own reaction, while the other was that she had let herself act so freely and uncoordinated in front of someone that looked like him. Handsome and sweet and eyes so green they refreshed you upon first glance. Like the cool burn of water going into a mouth that had just chewed a stick of minty gum. âI want to buy these flowers.âÂ
God help him. Her voice alone was enough to make him melt. The lilts and melodies of her voice swarming all four of the ventricles in his heart with warmth, and every blood cell that passed contained a glowing heat, buzzing with her energy.Â
She points to the sunflowers, her gaze lingering on them with longing. A soft smile toying on her mouth, and Harry could see the tendons in her throat stretch as she inhaled to add another thought to her sentence, âDo you sell vases by any chance?â The girl looked at him shyly, her eyelashes almost twinkling as she blinked, and his heart soared, âI had a really nice one in the shape of a big Coca-Cola bottle, and I accidentally knocked it over, so now I have nothing to put them in.âÂ
Harry is incredibly enamoured by subconscious gestures that take over her hands as she speaks, fiddling as if the vase she spoke about was in her hands, all in one piece before it was broken. Heâs quiet throughout her tiny ramble, listening and taking note of her enticing antics. Sheâs looking down at the floor or the flowers or her hands, and when her eyes dance over to his steady gaze, âIâm rambling arenât I?â she murmurs bashfully.Â
âNo, no itâs aâright. I can look in the back for something if yâlike?â He suggested, arrowing a thumb to the âbackâ he mentioned. âDid yâwant anything in particular?â Â
âOh, I donât wanna be a troubling customer!â She squeaked, concerned with becoming a nuisance she didnât want to be.Â
âYânot a bother, love. Mâpromise. Iâll go look fâyou. What color did yâhave in mind?â He asked her, tone calm and soothing to reiterate his sentiment. She was not a bother. The only thing about her that bothered him was the fact that he did not know her name, and even that was his own fault for not asking her.Â
His hands rest on his hips, tattooed cross momentarily hidden by the bunch of his sweater vest as he waits for her to respond, his eyes locked on her mouth, her own tongue subtly licks her lips, adding a sparkly sheen to it that only drove him crazy. Ever the jilted fool, his mind jumps to what it would feel like to kiss her, or what it would feel like if she kissed him in other places. What fruits she tasted like, and what kind of kisser she was. A timid one? With a patient mouth waiting to be broken open with the force of his own? Frugal? Opening her mouth and giving him everything she had to offer.Â
âSomething pink, please. If you have it.â That smile again. One that told a million apologies it didnât owe, with her eyes pinching at the corners with whatever nonsense culpability she felt. Her voice was sweet, Harry thought, like wind chimes on a summer morning.Â
Feeling guilty for allowing such dirty thoughts to gallop through his mind when she was so⊠so pure. Like an angel. Even her way of presenting herself was shy and sweet, yet he was thinking about kissing her. Was that perverted? She was a customer he had seen twice, and his mind was already running wild with luscious assumptions; a sunday topped with a red cherry of sensuality. How awfully dirty of him.Â
But! But those were not the only thoughts he had. He wanted to ask her what happened to cause her to drop her vase, and where she had bought it. If it was vintage, considering it was a Coca-cola bottle, and if she had any accidents while cleaning up the mess of broken glass. He wanted to hear her thoughts. No, better yet, he just wanted to hear her talk. He wanted to get to know her. To know if she was as nice as she looked.Â
ââCourse,â he mumbled, his eyes shamefully downcast to the floor. âBe righâ back.â
Harry stalked off to âthe back of the storeâ. Truth was, there was no back of the store containing vases. There was only a small closet with boxes of items he might need around the store, like flower food, rubber bands, and decorative paper for the bouquets. A crate of bottled water for when he got too lazy to climb up the back stairs and into his home.Â
His home.Â
Plucking the keys from his pocket, a ring that held a ceramic swan his closest friend Mitch had gifted him with a humble admission of âsaw this at a thrift store and thought about you, H, I had to buy itâ, and five keys: one to the front door of his shop, one to the cash box in the register, one to the mailbox, another to the front door of his apartment, and one to his car. The one to his front door was painted at the head with pastel pink nail polish, so it was easy for him to pick out when he was dead tired after a long day of being on his feet (spunky shoes that he liked to wear sometimes didnât help ease the ache on his back, and neither did his posture).Â
The back door that led to the stairs had locks on both the inside and the outside. A deadbolt and chain on matching sides of the door to ensure comfortable sleep at night, and peaceful work time during the day. Not having to worry about curious children opening doors or nosy customers relieved him. It was a little amatuer, but the door made a loud noise when opened because it wasnât quite level, and he had a tiny key so he could lock it from the outside, too.Â
A loud shucking noise resonated through the store as he pulled the door open, and then again when he closed it behind him. The delicacy of his dainty yet large hands were nearly comical around the tiny golden pin stud that hung from the chain, almost slipping from his hands with nerves as he slid it in place. Harry didnât think that she was nosy or anything like that, bit if he was going up to give her a vase of his own personal collection, he didnât want her to find out and feel even more intrusive that she already did.Â
He was a huge giver, and upon hearing her say that she broke her flower pot, his mind was already thinking about the perfect one to replace it. It just so happened to be sitting on his shelf with a bundle of dying lavender. Climbing up the stairs (the ache in his thighs was a mere twinge compared to what it was when he first moved here), Harry huffed and thought to himself all the ways he could ask for her name and number.Â
Listen, I really like yâand would like to have yânumber?â
Do yâwanna have my number so we can go out sometime if yâfeel like it?â
âIs it alright if I get yânumber so we can go out sometime?â
âHey, love. Whatâs yâname?â
Nothingâs making sense to him. The pick up lines he had stored in his head for the rare times he would flirt with a girl were slipping from him. None of them seemed worded right to use with her. Too abrupt or too brisk. Not sweet enough. He wanted to treat her gently and to be worthwhile of her time. Plus, it also had to be smooth enough that it made her forget she was paying him for flowers or it would be awkward. He was a twenty-six man for crying out loud, not a twenty-one year old smile at the bar looking for a good time. This wasnât a âgood timeâ. This was⊠a courting. An inquiry to a relationship. A rose rose in a candlelit room.Â
Harry opened his front door and moved in a quick jog to a table besides his hi-fi that held a translucent pale pink glass, fat at the base before twirling and widening a few inches at the lip. An image of a nude mermaid puffing out at the front like an engraving. Cuddling it into his breast, he grabbed the lavender, speed walked back to his kitchen where his toe banged against the metal of the trashcan as he pressed on the lever to open it. He hissed fuck under his breath and shucked the dead lavender into the bag before turning back to his door, closing it behind him, but not locking it because he didnât want to keep her waiting. His feet moved quickly down the stairs, the one hand not holding onto the vase cupping a hand over the side of his hips that held his keys so they didnât make much noise.Â
The button on the chain slipped from his fingers a few times from their repeated clamminess, and when he was ready to finally twist the knob, he paused to take a breath and collect himself. Harry ran a hand through his hair, fixed his collar, and dusted off his pants legs. He wanted to look perfect for her.Â
âDonât be stupid,â he murmured to himself. He had a good feeling about this. About her. And if he messed this up because he looked bad or said something weird he would kick himself into a muddy ditch.Â
Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and calmly walked back, âIâve got the last one,â he said, tapping the tip of the vase with his pointer finger. It was a lie, right through his teeth, but he was happy to tell it in return for the way she was looking at him in that moment. His eyes rounded out as he approached her, like the curves of hearts that made up the heart-eye emoji, or the puppy-dog face. Just another physical display of his growing affinity towards her.Â
âOh my god!â She said, âIt's so pretty!â The trapped crystals in her irises twinkled with bewilderment at the treasure Harryâs presented her with. Sheâs got a smile on her face, and he canât help but think, âwow, she looks like a freshly bloomed white lilyâ.Â
Thereâs a vintage print hanging in his corridor, a âflower language chartâ with different types of flowers and a sentence beneath them describing the messages they send. For example, red carnations= my heart aches for you. The description beneath white lilies reads âmy love is pureâ.Â
She asked him if it wasnât too pricey, and he made up some fake sale he had going on about a hybrid BOGO in which if she bought an arrangement she would get a vase included in her purchase (he added âIâve got a shipment of new ones coming in an I need the space cleared out before they get hereâ just to make sure his fib is believable.) And he explains this so shyly. Harry canât keep his eyes locked on hers because sheâs staring at him with an intensity that lets him know she's really listening, and it makes him squirm. The tips of his fingers tap against the vase, and heâs tripping over his tongue, which is ridiculous because he already talks so slow.Â
âI guess I was right in waiting then,â she said casually, waiting for Harry to finish ringing her up.Â
His finger froze over the touch screen of the sleek, modern device (he wanted nothing but the best for his store) and listened to the exciting roar of blood through his eardrums at her words. I guess I was right in waiting then? What did that mean? That she was planning on coming back to see him and didnât? Of course, it could also mean that she was going to buy something else somewhere else, but he couldnât stop the vine of ripe hope that swelled around his chest. And she looked so apprehensive while saying it. As if she was walking on glass and was looking for cracks as she stepped. As if she was waiting on him to catch on to something.
Harry cleared his throat and looked at her through the corner of his eye, trying to be as discreet as possible as his fingers continued their deliberate work on the screen, âWhat dâyou mean, love?â
âI was going to stop by sooner, but I just got in my head about it,â the girl shrugged, and adjusted the ends of her cardigan so they wrapped around her torso. She had a different bag this time, one of those reusable market bags that was made up of holes, and it was filled with two books and a can of green tea from the vegan store down the street. Harry thinks he can make out one of the titles on one of the spines, which looks suspiciously similar to something that he has on his own shelf.Â
âWhy would yâget in yâown head about coming to mâflower shop, hmm? Itâs hardly that intimidating,â he chuckles to play off the dashes of pink and red that are painting themselves across the bridge of his twitching nose, âI donât bite, either.âÂ
And he hopes that his wistfulness isnât meddling with his vision because he swears that he can see a matching reaction on her own doll face. âI know! I know, itâs just that I canât help it sometimes. Talking to other people makes me nervous.âÂ
Harry could coo at her right now. He doesnât, though. He nods and smiles at her before reading her total out to her, âThat I get, too. But yâdoing just fine with me, love.âÂ
Waiting patiently as she digs through her bag for cash, he tries to not stare. However, itâs impossible. His eyes had a mind of their own dragging against the forces of his will to feast on her image again. Her hands and the tip of her nose. The base of her neck and gentle swell of her clavicles. The swoops of hair that hung in a curtain from her shoulder as her head tilted in search, and the how her teeth bit down into her lip in concentration. Harry counted the amount of times her eyelashes met her waterline in those few seconds of comfortable silence. Three.Â
âI thought I had cash on me today,â something in her bag clicks, and she pulls out the rectangular card Harryâs become familiar with, holding it out to him between two deft fingers, painted with red hearts on a white base. âI guess I used my last twenty at the organic food store down the street,â she said.Â
âIt is pretty easy to get lost in there, isnât it?â He took her card from her, and tried not to make it obvious that he was eager to read her name off of it as he inserted it into the machine. The embossed letters into the plastic read y/n y/l/n, and when he turns back to look at her, he canât help the smile that spreads across his boyish features.
Y/n.Â
Y/n, y/n, y/n.
This is what it must feel to be let in on a secret thatâs worth millions of dollars. It must, because Harryâs heart is soaring with a closure he didnât know he needed. Y/n, y/n. Her name tickled him. Stroked him. Lathered him with the honey smoothness of the beeswax shampoo he bought at that fateful organic store. It was a fitting name. Sometimes, one could tell a person âyou know, I actually thought you were a Amy or a Jessicaâ, because their looks and style just didnât match the strength or modesty of their name. But not y/n. It fit her like a glove. There was no other way to make sense of the way Harryâs brain was thinking. The name was her.Â
âWhat?â Her lips quirk up into a smile and her eyebrows dip in confusion. Why was he looking at her like that? Did she have something on her face? Here she was, opening up to a cute stranger and she had something on her face? This, she thought to herself, is humiliating. Her finger dusted off non-existent crumbs from the corners of her mouth, âdo I have something on my face?â
âNo! No, no.â Harryâs careful beam simmered down from itâs previous brightness, and his hand nervously filed through the swoop of chocolate curls sitting on his head like a cinnamon roll. âI just think yâname is pretty thasâ all.âÂ
He murmured the last part so that it was practically incoherent, and lowered his gaze as a searing heat stretching like saran wrap around his head and the divot on the nape of his neck. Oh, God. He was fucking blushing. Great Harry. A normally favorite among the ladies had been reduced to murmurs and thick, uncoordinated movements.Â
Like dropping her card when she piped up again.Â
Voice as small and quaint as his had been, "you think my name is pretty?â Her fingers are wrapped around the frail straps of her bag, tight enough that her knuckles were white and Harry was scared that sheâd bury her fingernails into her palm.Â
âI think yâvery pretty.â He whispered back. He canât even bear to look at her in fear that heâs totally fucked himself over once and for all. His logic was this: what girl wants to be told by the guy theyâre buying flowers that theyâre pretty after he reads her name from her debit card? Especially one who (if outside female sources are to be believed) dresses âthe way my mother did when she was a girl in the seventiesâ? Jesus, fuck. He mustâve looked ridiculous.Â
Harry opened his mouth to backtrack and apologize for being so unorthodox in his workspace, a breath sitting on his tongue with words ready to spew out, but the bell began to chime and it yanks his head from the register to the front and instead he said, âwelcome! Iâll be with you in a moment.âÂ
Flustered and full of regret, the flower connoisseur returned his wired gaze back to y/n, who⊠was smiling at him? The kind of smile that said âoh my god, I canât believe you just said that. Now please say it againâ? Was he⊠dreaming? Did he have to pinch himself in order to verify that he wasn-
âThank you... whatâs your name?â Y/n looked at the card from his hands and sunk her hand- carefully, as to not get her fingers stuck in any of the tiny holes- and there was another clicking noise before she took her hand back out. That angel-like smear of girlish happiness was still on her, decadently radiating positivity and secret affection. Goodness leaked from the seams of her bones; through the cracks of her breastplate, radiating from her chest to Harryâs. He could feel it now. He could feel that his previous assumptions about her nature were true. She was altruistic and tender, like the inside of a birdâs wing.Â
âHarry. Mânameâs Harry.â This time, he didnât hide his happiness. Even his eyes shone with a heightened, clear and sparkly shade of liquid evergreen. The joy that bounced inside of him like ricocheting metal balls in a pin game machine. His slender hand, fawn-skinned and graceful like the legs of a deer, stretched out between them. His mother had taught him that along with the first introduction of his name, a handshake must be present, always. Dipping his head slightly, and his words spongy with love-ditz, Harry rumbled, âNice to meet you, y/n.â Â
She placed her hand in his, and was practically swallowed by only his palm. He curled his fingers around her, thumb and middle finger overlapping around the clammy center of hers. So she was nervous, just as he was. Y/n was trained on their embracing limbs, and he could feel a spot on his neck where the skin palpated from the rush of blood as she observed their entwined digits. Their hands moved up and down, up and down between them for longer than necessary until her chin twitched back up to meet his, and she blinked mawkishly, slowly, like the videos of rehabilitated barn owls Harry sees on his Instagram.Â
Then, suddenly, as if she remembered she was not the only one present, y/n jolts upright and shakes her head dazedly. âItâs nice to meet you, too, Harry. I like your nail color,â she added.Â
Heâs cheesing. A shit-eating grin too big for his face and it carves dimples into the flesh of his cheeks. His name on her tongue had never sounded so appealing, like it was made for her and only her to say. Not even the turtle-doves that cooed outside his window in the mornings sounded as beautiful as she did saying his name. And she complimented her nails! She hadnât scrutinized him like others had, instead, she displayed her admiration for them. No one- well, actually he canât say that without offending Mitch- no female of his age had ever received him with such open-mindedness as hers. If he didnât have any self-restraint, he would giggle. Instead, Harry pulled his hand back so that their perfect moment wasnât sullied with bouts of bad timing, âthank yâlove. I like yours, too. Youâll have tâcome over sometime and paint mine, yeah?âÂ
Y/n laughed, and he breathed a sigh of relief that he hadnât been too bold, âIâd love too!â With glee frozen on her, she turned to look over her shoulder at the customer who was browsing the flowers Harry had in buckets, âI donât want to hold you back from a customer for so long. Iâll stop by again soon, Harry. Thank you so much for your help.âÂ
The moment her hands reached for the wrapped bundle of sunflowers and the mermaid vase, a metaphorical grey cloud of rain and thunder manifested in the space above his head, and blocked all of the sunshine from spanning across his toned, lithe body. Did she really have to go? He wanted to whine. Maybe even wrap himself around her ankles like a child that refused to leave the park. They were only just getting to a mutual spot of comfort! Forget the other customer, he wanted to shout. Harry would kick them out and flip the sign to âclosedâ if it meant only a few more minutes in the presence of her candy-coated charisma.Â
But he knows thatâs unrealistic, and settles with, âit was my pleasure, y/n,â a flirty wink (at least he hopes it is), âIâll be waiting fâyour next visit.â His taffy lips wrapping effortlessly around his smooth words, fueled by her welcoming receptiveness to his advances. It would be easy to be himself in the future, a little smoother and eloquent in his language and feeling. He was usually clear with what he wanted from anyone, and made it a pleasurable experience in all aspects for both parties involved (once it was three). Harry wanted to sweep her off her feet, and he wanted it to be an enjoyable experience for the both of them. Revel in that feeling of blooming emotions in a new relationship. A healthy one, in which he wasnât receiving back-handed compliments all the time.Â
He wasnât superficial enough to push anyone off the table based on looks alone, but it did help that y/n had the disposition of an angel. An ethereal voice, supple lips that looked so silky and soft they had to feel that way, too, and hands that felt so tender in his. Perfect for holding on a late night stroll, or over the center console of his car when -if they go out on dates.Â
What really hooked, reeled, and sinked him, though, was the fact that she was so nice to him. From the start, sheâd been nothing but polite and sweet with him. Donât even get him started on the way he swooned at the tone of her voice when he said that her name was pretty! So quiet and velvety, careful and calculated like she wanted him to know that it was okay. That she wasnât thrown off by his comment. He nearly toppled over, clutching his heart with his legs jutting straight up into the air like a frightened goat.Â
It wasnât until the bells stopped ringing the sad notice of her exit that Harry realized he passed up the perfect opportunity to ask for her number, and as he kicked himself over it, he walked with the perfect customer service face he could muster to help the other person in his store.Â
***
Harry was having a shitty morning.Â
Not the kind of morning where every aspect of his routine is a terrible mishap, but like the water being too cold and the stove not working or the bottle of oat milk in the fridge being empty so he couldnât make coffee. No, everything was fine and rolling smoothly, as it should.Â
His water was the perfect temperature and ran down the toned bumps and divots of his muscles like the relaxing thrums of a loverâs caress in the midst of prowling heat. As soon as it hit his back, he released a sigh of contentment, his shoulders hunching and head rolling back and his hands roamed his shoulders and the back of his neck, rubbing away any aches that existed. The branch of eucalyptus that hung from the golden pipe of his showerhead fused a thick minty scent into the steam that fogged the glass wall, and the calming aroma helped the tendons loosen like the deflating limpness of untied shoelaces. He spent a few minutes just standing there, inhaling and exhaling deeply and feeling his lungs open and stretch beneath his rib cage.Â
It almost made him wish that heâd opted to use his tub for a hot bath instead.Â
He was able to cook an egg just fine on his stove, with dashes of Everything Bagel Seasoning with a side of avocado and a slice of toasted cranberry walnut bread, the same thing he had every morning. The carton of oat milk was brand new from his trip to the market the day before, and his coffee tasted the same as it always did. But⊠he was just... sad. An melancholy soreness that eroded against the insides of his body, consuming him slowly but surely and leaving him with a lost feeling of emptiness and unimportance.Â
He thinks he might know why heâs feeling this way.Â
While heâs stirring his scrambled eggs, heâs wondering how y/n likes hers. Over easy? Sunny-side up? Scrambled, like him? Did she even like eggs in the morning? What did she eat in the morning? He knows that some people âarenât hungryâ in the mornings, though thatâs only because theyâve gone hungry in the mornings before for an extended time period, and after so long of not feeding their growling stomachs, their brain discontinues the signals of hunger. Harry hopes that isnât the case with y/n, and that sheâs eating the proper three meals a day every day.Â
And while he dipped a mini vegan chocolate croissant that he got at Whole Foods, he also wonders what she likes to dip chocolate croissants into, or if she even likes chocolate croissants. If she was a person who likes sweet treats, like strawberry tarts with powdered sugar over them or something lighter, like fruit cut into small squares in a bowl. When Harry was younger and would visit his nan on the weekends, she would pick fresh strawberries from her garden and cut them up for him when heâd woken from his nap. Sometimes, she would even sprinkle half a tablespoon of sugar over them. He wonders if sheâd ever eaten strawberries like that.Â
Itâs been a week and a half, he still hasnât seen her, and his heart is yearning.Â
Harry knows heâs not in the correct headspace to assist other people with a cheery disposition about an hour before opening time, and decides itâs best if he writes a note on the door about how the shop wouldnât open that day because he didnât want to taint the reputation of his business by snapping at a customer for the only bundle of sunflowers he had, or dissolve into a puddle of love-sick tears in the middle of ringing someone up. Though really the notice just says âHâs Garden will not be opening today. Sorry for the inconvenience!â followed by a frowning face and a lopsided, filled-in heart.Â
Harry drags his feet back up the stairs, his lower lip jutting out in a discreet but depressing pout, and grabs Owen from his tank so that the chameleon could curl into the shoulder of Harryâs hoodie while he moped on the couch to sappy rom-coms that would only make him think about her more. At least there was someone there with him, even if his small green friend only used him for mangoes and papaya. They sit together for the entirety of Romeo + Juliet, and when itâs over, Harryâs sniffly and standing up to return Owen to his enclosure and to clean because the riotous emotions that whirl within him are too much to process while sitting down.Â
Cleaning wouldnât help him solve his problems, but it would help him cram all of his worries into a tight corner at the back of his mind- sort of like when dirty laundry began to overflow in the hamper and it requires extra force to shove it all in, only to come all back out like a memory sponge. His tormented thoughts on y/n could be compared to a dramatic inner monologue, very similar to how Romeo feels about his Juliet. But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and y/n is the sun. Harry has the play on his book shelf (the one with the side-to-side modern English translation because he was never quite gifted in the English department) and as he reaches for a bandana to tie his hair back, he finds himself resonating with a particular line: parting is such a sweet sorrow.
There was no need to change any of his clothing, since he was already dressed in one of his more impromptu outfits; grey sweats and a white t-shirt that read âwomen are smarterâ in black across his chest. He tied the red bandana into a knot at the back of his head, and lifted it over his chin so that it settled on his forehead, sweeping his hair back with a final push back. It doesnât get in his way when he crouches to clean his various tables, spraying cleaning products with his shirt pulled over his nose, another organic product thatâs supposed to be less harmful and smells like cinnamon and sandalwood. His shoulder blades begin to ache because heâs being a little more aggressive than he has to be, but the green tiles were sparkling so he was content.Â
He washes the dishes, mops the kitchen floor, vacuums the carpets, cleans Owenâs habitat, and tidies the mail that piled up on the table when he finally calls it quits. Scouring his brain for something to do, to keep him busy- his brain busy, Harry settles on the floor with his back to the edge of his bed. Heâs shirtless now, and is in need of another shower but heâd rather not because he knows he might end up crying over the possibility that heâs scared y/n off. Thereâs a book in his hands and a Frank Ocean record playing softly in the background that mentions something about âI've been thinkin' 'bout you, do you think about me still?â and itâs not helping his case at all.  Â
Itâs no use.Â
Thereâs a plague of darkness buzzing like cicadas in his ears. He fears rejection and criticism. That maybe, she was only pretending in order to make the situation more pleasant so it ended sooner. Most of all, he feared that it would always be this way. That he would never find someone who embraces who he is as a person. Always met with mean side-eye glances or second looks of displeasure and confusion. It isnât always that way, though, because then that would mean he gets absolutely no action, and that isnât true.Â
Harry is very⊠well-educated in matters that concerned sexual intercourse, but it was always a one-night stand ordeal. It was never âI really like you we should go out sometimeâ. In fact, he noticed that only time his approaches were well received were those in which he was dressed in a calmer manner. Simple, solid colors with sneakers or a t-shirt. Girls would flirt back, make good conversation, allow him to buy them a few drinks, and when heâd take them to his apartment theyâd ask why he lived on top of a flower-shop, and if it was his sister or female-friendâs palace that he was crashing. Sex would ensue, but his heart wouldnât be as present and engaged as he wanted it to be.Â
Wrong. It was always so fucking wrong, and God, if he didnât get out of this apartment heâs going to breakdown and cry and thereâs no one to call to come over because Mitch is on a trip with his girlfriend, Sarah, and his other friend Jeff is on his honeymoon in Sweden. They were the only two on his mental speed dial list during the rare occasions he had a crisis, as they were the two that Harry had ever really opened up to. Mitch was a bit closer to his heart. Theyâve known each other since their school days and practically grew up together (at one point they had small crushes on each other, which were confessed years down the line). Jeff was the owner of Winsome where⊠where y/n had mentioned spending her last twenty dollar bill. He didnât have an issue opening up to them. He liked opening up to them, but he didnât understand why they were the only two that ever truly opened their arms to him.Â
A walk, he decided, would help him⊠air out his brain. Calm down. Breathe a little deeper, a little easier.Â
He threw his white shirt back on, and a forest green sweatshirt that donned the emblem of the school he went to earn his business degree that fit him wide around the shoulders and felt like a marshmallow. Putting on a pair of beat up shoes, he shoved his keys into his pocket, hobbling and nearly losing his balance because he was moving way too fast. The door closed behind him with a slam, and even though he was still wearing the bandana around his head, wispy stray curls framing his face in a wild mane, his distress palpable through his appearance, but he doesnât care. He just needs to get out and feel the cool air against his skin.Â
Thereâs a backdoor behind the stairs that will take him to a small alleyway that leads to a back parking lot where other shop owners that live at the top of their stores on the same side of his street parked their cars. He unlocks it from the inside, and throws his shoulder into it, desperate to her out. When it shuts behind him, he doesnât turn back because itâs the kind to lock from the outside when closed. His fingers curl into the ends of his sleeve so that the tips of his fingers (nails now changed to a sparkling silver color) are the only parts of his hands visible.Â
Rounding the corner, he whistled the cheeriest tune he can muster. His lips are puckered and his cheekbones high with the extension of his mouth. Heâs not very happy on the inside, though he remembers reading something somewhere that if you pretend to be something long enough, youâll eventually become it. If he pretends to be happy, then heâll actually be happy.Â
Right?
Harry rounds the corner of the parking lot and turns on to the main street. Itâs only two in the afternoon, so there's people crawling in and out of shops anywhere. He even sees a man and a woman peeking into the window of his store, and he would feel bad if he wasnât in a shitty mood already. Heâs so out of it, that he nearly yells âget your hands off my windows!â. He doesnât though, because for a moment the woman becomes y/n and the man becomes him, wrapping a ringed hand around her waist and whispering in her downy ear âtheyâre closed, darling, letâs go somewhere elseâ and she straightens dejectedly, pouting playfully and standing up and her tippy toes so that she could press a quick kiss to his lips.Â
That image fades though, and the couple continues with their stroll, hand in hand, and his heart is wrenching, writhing and trying to yank itself free from itâs place in his chest because it hurts too much to stay.Â
Cars whizz past, and he skirts in and out of people on the sidewalk, keeping his pace fast and focused. Thereâs no intended destination, heâs just moving with the intent to forget the pretty girl who haunts him. Her voice is all he can hear. Her smile is all she can picture. And the rest of her is all he can imagine, which is exactly what hurts the most. Imagination only goes so far, fulfils so much with uncertainty of what the truth was and what wasnât. Harry could imagine her with her feet up on the lip of a bubble filled tub, a glass of wine in her hands, but thenâŠwhat kind of wine did she like? Or did she even like wine? And did she even have a bathtub to stretch out in after a long day?Â
He curses the crimes he may have committed in past lives to deserve this torture. This unbearable pain that felt like he was being dunked in a slow-acting acid. He can do nothing about it but keep walking with labored will power. He passed his shop, and a bakery and a small thrift store that sells used clothing for way too much money. At the propped open double-doors of Jeffâs Winsome, he decides to talk in and browse. Thereâs so many items that smell good and taste good, that it was fun to just walk in and look.Â
âBack again so soon, H?âÂ
Spinning on his heel, Harry comes face to face with Niall, a brunette, fit, Irish bloke with a chummy smile and a killer sense of humor. The two have brokered a sort of friendship, considering the amount of time (and money) that Harry spends there. Niall has even started calling him âHâ in silent homage to his flower shop.Â
âYâknow I canât stay away,â Harry attempted to joke, his lips pulling up in a weak smile, âplus, I think I needed sâmore of the peppermint essential oils fâmy diffuser.âÂ
ââCourse ya do! You're worse than the bloody vegan mums that come in asking for gluten free baby powder!â Niall cups a hand over his mouth and loudly whispers to so that only Harry catches his verbiage. There was a woman in the back of the store, looking through soaps in the limited kidâs section, the same exact kind that Niall was speaking about. âGo on and look around then, Iâll be here when youâre finished.â He said.Â
Harry only nodded his acknowledgement, and moved in between wooden walnut shelves. The entire store had a caramel brown color scheme, with only the inventory adding color to it. MacramĂ© potted succulents and plants added to the natural, outdoorsy feel. Winsome had an interesting mix of smells from all of the aromatherapy based products it housed, but it only added to the appeal.Â
Currently, he held a packet of four lip balms that advertised to be â100% all naturally derived ingredients with no artificial additives' infused with âhealing power of crystalsâ, two of them âcitrine cherry' flavored, and the remaining âgarnet guavaâ. The brand name is something in Italian that he canât read, packaging thick and a triangle made of arrows in the corner signaling it can be decomposed and/or recycled. He had the same exact ones at home, only they were all misplaced and-Â
âHarry?â
A small, timid voice called his name from behind him, and he froze. He knew that voice. It was the same one he had repeated over and over in his head for the past week, waiting for her promised arrival with a hopeful heart.Â
His eyes go wide with recognition, body still and stiff like a deer caught in headlights. His heart begins to rump at a furious speed, loud in his ears like a million stampeding hooves. The packaged products in his hands shake, and then she speaks again, âHarry, is that you?âÂ
Is this really happening right now? Heâs embarrassed at having been caught with lipstick in his hands of all things, but he canât put them back now. It was too late for that. He lets them hang at his side, and turns around. He hopes there isnât perspiration dripping from his temples because all of a sudden he wants to yank his sweater off.Â
Harry turned, slowly. He feared that if he moved too fast she would fly away like a startled dove.Â
âY/nâŠâ Heâs breathless, but he manages a pitiful quirk of the corner of his mouth, which he licks over right after, âhi.âÂ
Sheâs wearing a dress this time, frilly at the hem which fell just above her knees. Itâs pink and covered and lined with blood red trim at her forearms. A string of pearls glistens at the base of her throat, and her lips are covered in a sheen of lipstick. Her hair, however, is a tousled mess, pieces of it framing her face and untucked from her bun as if she had been jostling around. Her cheeks are flushed with the cold, and clearly that thin beige cardigan hanging off her elbows is doing nothing to keep her warm.
Y/n smiles at him, with the same shakiness, âf-for a second I thought I was talking to the wrong p-person.âÂ
 Itâs quiet again, and theyâre both fidgeting. Y/nâs knees knock together as she shifts her weight from foot to food, and Harry idly rubs his finger under his nose and sniffs boogies that arenât there. Sheâs staring at the ground and rocking back and forth on her heels and he canât think of anything to say because heâs so paralyzed by the fact that sheâs actually standing in front of him, and looks as gorgeous as ever. Had he somehow manifested her presence?Â
While sheâs hiking up the ends of her sweater so that theyâre situated properly on her shoulders, he says the first thing that comes to his mind. âArenât yâcold?â
Her head snaps up and she peeks at him from under her lashes while flattening a hand at her thigh, âa little bit.âÂ
Harry watches her tuck her hair behind her ears and wonders if she came walking from her apartment again. In the cold. Dress as she was. Not that he had a problem with the way that she was dressed! He understood that sometimes when people grew bored they used the smallest occasions to dress up and have some fun and get out of their homes. He did it too, sometimes. To clear his head. Hell, isnât that what he was doing now?
âDâyou need a ride home?â He stumbled over his tongue to backtrack, not wanting her to think that he was a wierdo or anything like that, ât-that is if yâwalking, I wouldnât want you to get sick or anything like that. Sâbit chilly out today.âÂ
Y/n smiles shyly at him, a blush on the highest points of her cheeks, and rubs the side of her face against the fabric of her cardigan, âthank you, for the offer, but uhm⊠itâs my friendâs baby-shower-gender-reveal thing today and I came with my other friend to some last minute gifts and some flowers. I was going to buy some stuff from here because sheâs crazy about the whole âno preservativesâ and all but, and I was also going to stop by your shop to buy some flowers, but I saw you were closed so IâŠIâm rambling again.â She sputtered out the last bit, and pressed the tips of her three middle fingers to her lips to stop the words from coming out.Â
Harry smirked at her antics, but itâs more of a repressed smile, and the rest of his humor gleamed in the sea-glass of his eyes like a message in a bottle.Â
âSâalright, love.â Heâs still holding the lip balms in his hand, and he can feel the moisture thatâs collecting on his palms dampening the Kraft like material as he gestured to her dress with the tip of his chin. âYâwearing pink. I take it yâwant the baby to be a girl?â
âActually, I know itâs a girl. She told me,â y/n pips, shrugging smugly.Â
Harry laughs at her this time, âDid you finish with all your purchases here? I can make an exception and open up fâyou.â
âOh, Harry, I donât wanna bother you! Because if this was your day off then-â
He lifts a hand to get her to stop, and uses the opportunity to twist around and put back what he had in his hands. The conversation is flowing so smoothly now, that all of his previous worries are gone. He can only focus on her and the way her eyelashes fluttered and the crystalline sparkly in her voice.Â
âY/n, itâs fine. Dâya finish here? We can head over to the shop now if youâd like.â Harry points a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door.Â
âUh, no. I just got here so I still have to go grab some things,â she said, pushing her hair past her ears again. He thinks that she can probably tell the disheveled state her hair was in, because she begins to pop off a pin in her hair to readjust it. He doesnât mind it, though. He thinks she looks cute. Angel-like.Â
He nods, rolling his hands into fists within his sleeves so that the cuffs hang over his knuckles, and tries not to trip over his legs as he backs away. âAâright. Iâll wait fâyou in the front, then. Take yâtime, love.âÂ
ââKay,â she gleams at him, biting down on her bottom lip, and Harry turns away fully before he starts whining about how cute she is or before thereâs a dent in the heather grey fabric of his sweatpants. Â
At the front, Niall has his chin at the palm of his hand, and as he gets closer, Harry lifts his head to see that the brunette is wiggling his eyebrows mischievously. There's a shit-eating grin on his face that clearly points to a mountain of teasing in the near distance.Â
âA little love-struck, mate?â He said, as soon as Harry was within hearing distance. At least he had the decency to keep his voice down, he thought.Â
Harry flips him off, âoh, bug off.âÂ
Silver glitter sparkling on his nails, and his gaze strays to the floor, bashful of how clear his affection was. He turns to rest his bum against the counter and pulls out his phone to appear busy as he waits for y/n, mindlessly opening Instagram to have something to do (and to stop him from glancing at her ever two seconds).   Â
âYup. I knew it. Have yâasked her out yet?â Niall doesnât stop to let Harry refute his question, âyâknow she comes in sometimes, after stopping by your place? And she just will not stop talking about how nice yeh were to her.â
Harryâs head snaps up from his screen so fast, something at the back of his neck creaks with the force. Instagram is long forgotten.
âWhat? Are you fuckinâ with me right now?â He doesnât mean for his words to come as aggressive as they do, but the thought of her speaking to someone else about him is⊠well, itâs thrilling.Â
Alarmed, Niallâs hands come up near his face in the motion of surrender, âno, man! Dead serious. Think she likes yeh, honestly.â
He can only say: âFuck me.â
Niall is about to respond when a quiet voice breaks their stares, âIâm all finished.âÂ
âAlready, babe? Iâll rig ya up, then!âÂ
Heâs quick to slide the few products over the scanning square, and y/n and Harry stand beside each other silently, their height difference laughable. Niallâs gaze flickered between them with no commentary, and his lips pucker with a wiggling smile when he finally announces her total. A bit too much for a small changing blanket, oatmeal-based baby lotion, pacifiers with a lavender infused towel attached to âaid with goodnight nightâs sleepâ, and a bamboo hairbrush with a tuft of soft bristles.Â
Nonetheless, she provides the money with a pleasant smile. Harry can see a bit of tightness around her eyes that suggests discomfort, but he doesnât say anything. Niall hands her a paper bag with her purchase, âthere yeh go! Have a good day now, y/n! And be good, to Harry!âÂ
Harryâs eyes widen at Niallâs last comment, and it takes every bit of self-restraint in him to not reach the other counter and whack him in the back of the head. Instead, he shakes and ducks his head in near shame.
Y/n, however, quips back with âIâll be nice only if youâre nice,â and bumps her shoulder against his before walking towards the door, looking over her shoulder at Harry whoâs smiling wide now, and trailing after her with no regard to Niall at all.Â
He shouts something after them about being rude lovebirds, but Harry doesnât care. Heâs floating after this heaven-sent like cartoon characters being led to a freshly baked pie with their nose on the scent. His rump high in the air like the Lorax disappearing into the light in the clouds, utterly ignorant to everything else.Â
When theyâve both stepped outside, they speak at the same time,Â
âLet me just-â
âDo yâwanna put-âÂ
Harry and y/n giggle at each other,Â
âYou go first.âÂ
âYâspeak first.âÂ
And then they laugh again. Harry pretends to zip his lips and throws away the key, and she says radiantly, âIâll drop this off in my friendâs car really fast and we can walk to your flower shop.âÂ
Watching her approach a car parked two spots away, a girl with blue, pink, and brown hair leans over to the passenger side, seat belt straining against her throat and when she sees Harry, she waves and it makes y/n push her back to her spot behind the driverâs side. Whoever this girl is, she and Niall have to meet, seeing as they canât mind their own business. He chuckled and waved back, that girl laughing along with him and it made y/n cover her face with her cardigan covered hands.Â
âIâm sorry about Charlotte,â she said when she got back, âshe doesnât know how to mind her own.â
âA bit like Niall, it seems.â Harry said. He waits for her to catch up before beginning to walk down the street. Side to side, shoulder to shoulder. Theyâre so close, Harry can feel the warmth of her body heat through the fleece of his sweatshirt. Itâs cold, and sheâs still this warm?Â
âMaybe,â her eyebrows raise, and her head tilts towards him, âthey should meet.âÂ
âThaâs exactly what I was thinkinâ!â His voice rises with his excited agreement, and the tip of his nose wiggles as he scrunches his nose.Â
As they get closer, to Hâs Garden, Harry reaches into his pocket for his keys, fingering through them so that they wouldnât have to stand in the cold for so long. He didnât want her to get sick.Â
âIâm sorry, Harry. I feel really bad about this,â she whispered beside him, looking up at him with doe eyes as she worried her lip between her teeth, the sheen of gloss adding an extra allure to her image at that moment. âItâs your day off, and Iâm bugging you.âÂ
They stood in front of the door now, underneath the green umbrella cover that extended from the top of the door and down the side of the window. Harry waited for her to step into the little alcove created by the indent of the door before stepping in after her and jiggling the key into the lock. He resisted the urge to pull his lips down into a cooing frown at the look on her face. She really was worried about disturbing him. If only she knew that he spent the entire day moping (and nearly crying) over her.Â
He sucked on his teeth, âoh, love, please worryinâ about it. Donât wanna see that frown on yâpretty face anymore okay?â His confidence was slowly coming back, âsânot my day off, I just didnât feel like speaking to customers today.âÂ
Shrugging, he opened the door, and took a step back to allow her to step through first. Y/n ducked her head as she passed him with a murmured âoh, okayâ, and he followed right after her, wanting to get away from the cold too because he knew that his nose was probably pink at that moment, but what he didnât anticipate was for y/n to stop right after breaching the threshold, and bend over at the waist to pick something up from the floor, causing Harry to bump into her at such an awkwardly sexual angle with all of his momentum.Â
Considering he was half twisted away from her and in the middle of pulling out the key from itâs slot, the amount of force in Harryâs push from behind was enough to cause her to nearly fall forward, a surprised whimper slipping from her lips. Harry, determined not to see her fall, lets go of the key and reaches out just in time to grasp her hips on either side, pulling her back towards him mid-fall so that she doesn't collapse on her face.Â
However, in the midst of all of this Harry forgets himself and uses a bit too much force. Not to mention, the implications of their position makes him hyper aware of every single place their bodies touched, her small frame against his lithe, tattooed body.Â
This moment only lasts for a few seconds, but he can feel everything.Â
He can feel the easy give of the skin of her hips underneath each finger that touched her, the softness of the flesh on her thighs against his sturdy knees. The fabric of his sweatpants is suddenly non-existent, and itâs almost as if he felt every taught tendon of her legs, frozen with efforts of helping catch or brace herself. The heat of her groin is flush against his, and it makes him want to scream with a sudden sensitivity. Her ass is practically seated on him, full and malleable against the points of his laurel covered hip bones. Harryâs semi-hunched, as her weight also pushed him back, and the position is doing nothing to help his frenzied mind settle. He feels like shit because heâs being a horny, pubescent kid instead of asking her if sheâs okay, but then y/n moves back into him to straighten fully and their centers grind. Her dress is semi-bunched at the halfway point of her bum, and he can feel heat emanating from her, radiating back on his bloating cock. He has to stifle a moan when she pushes herself up with the tips of her fingers.Â
Just as quickly as it started, itâs over. Y/n is dusting her bum off so that her dress falls and covers her modesty, and sheâs beet red in the face, not looking at him. Which was fine by him, he was too ashamed to look into her eyes.Â
He clears his throat (something heâs doing a lot around her) and asks if sheâs okay.Â
âYes. Yes, Iâm okay. This was on the floor,â she squeaked, holding up a neon yellow notice sheet in her hand. That damned thing was what caused all of this?
Itâs a notice from the delivery men that said, âsorry! We missed you!â with a time and date messily scrawled on the dotted lines. Harry had forgotten that he was getting a shipment of several plants that morning.Â
Cursing, he takes it from her, ât-thank you. Now how âbout those flowers?â
Itâs awkward, obviously, but y/n is severely silent. Harryâs still stuffy in his pants, but he ignores it and doesnât add any fuel to the fire because thereâs more pressing matters at hand than a boner. Y/n is the most quiet sheâs ever been around him, considering all of her word vomits and ramblings, and heâs suffering. Definitely beating himself up in his head for having ruined the moment. He held onto her for a second too long, frozen. She must feel so embarrassed, and he was self-endulging like a fucking asshole.Â
Harry asks her questions on what flowers sheâd like, and she answers by pointing or bringing a stem to him, laying it on the counter without a word. A mixture of dahlias and babyâs breath with a handful of feverfew to make the pink in the dahliaâs stand out. He lays them out on his work table, cutting the ends at an angle where they need to be cutted and laying them out on a sheet of clear, dusty rose paper. Three packets of flower food are strewn at the corner, and y/n busies herself by fidgeting with them. He grows concerned when he makes a comment on the kinds of ribbons he had stored and she doesnât say anything. Not even a nod or a hum.Â
Eventually, he decides heâs had enough of her neglect, and pauses his work to devote her some attention. Â
âLove, Iâm sorry about what happened,â he said softly, trying to catch her eyes, âI know it probably made yâuncomfortable, and I didnât do much to make the situation better, but I just didnât wanna see yâfall.â
Y/nâs head is already dipped, so he canât see her face, but when her shoulders begin to shake, he knows heâs utterly fucked. She starts to sniffle, and his eyes go wide. The paper crinkled as he set down the babyâs breath heâs holding in his hands. He hates seeing people cry, not because he didnât know how to deal with it, but because he often ended up crying along with them. Also, he just didnât want to see her cry. Harry wanted her to be happy, glowing, and smiling. Not dull with dollops of woeful distress in liquid form.
He rounds the corner and spares a look out to the street, wanting to make sure that there is no strange onlooker eavesdropping on their interaction. His hand reaches out to stroke her back or shoulder comfortingly, but he thinks better of it and drops his arm. She most likely would not like to be touched, considering what just happened between them. He drops his head, seeking face-to-face interaction, and speaks as gently as he can, ây/n, whatâs wrong?âÂ
She avoids his search, and turns the other way while sniffling, âyou probably think Iâm weird now or something after that.âÂ
âNo!â Harry exclaimed, jerking his head back as if heâd been struck, and her words practically had. He canât believe that she would think that and even go as far as verbalizing her thoughts when he worshipped the ground she walked on and didnât even know her that well, yet. âNo, no. I donât think that. Yâtripped, thatâs all. Happens to everyone. If anythinâ Iâm the weirdo for grabbinâ yâthe way I did, and Iâm really sorry about it.â
Y/n dig the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, âthat was so embarrassing, I shouldâve told you I was gonna stop or something. I always embarrass myself in front of cute boys and I never know what to do. I just-âÂ
Harry interrupts before she can dig herself further another hole. He highlights a segment of her words, dropping everything else in hopes of changing the conversation and taking her discomfort away, and mostly because he was bursting with relief and happiness. She had said that she thought he was cute, just how he thought that she was adorable, and nice, and everything good. They were on the same level, their minds in sync. Did that meanâŠ
His voice is airy and light because of what she had just admitted, âyâthink Iâm cute?â
She stills with awareness of what sheâs just said, and a puppy-like noise seeps from the back of the throat before her hands sink further into her eyes, embarrassed. Harry tenderly wraps his fingers around her small wrists and pulls her hands away from her face, murmuring about âdonât rub yâeyes anymore, love, yâgonna hurtâ with nothing but kindness. A millisecond of distraction speeds through his mind at the softness on the inside of her wrists.Â
Thereâs a trickle of blubbering in her part, her bitten lips bumping against each other as she attempts to backtrack, âI mean- I- I-â
Harry decides that itâs now or never. It was a bit inconvenient, perhaps, but with her revelation his confidence soared and he was more prepared now to ask than he ever had been. So, he goes for it, âcan I have yânumber?âÂ
A moment of semi-uncomfortable silence as the unknown tips the scale. Would she say yes? Would she say no? His head was spinning and he hoped his nose didnât start bleeding or something because y/n nods slowly, smiling, and then, âokay.âÂ
Heâs elated. He was the polar opposite of what he had been that morning. If only Owen could see him then. He doesnât waste any time reaching into his back pocket and handing her his unlocked phone. They donât share any words, only coy glances and flirty quirks of the lips as the tips of her fingers move on his screen. Harry canât believe that heâs finally getting her number, after nearly a month of pinning.Â
When sheâs finished, she clicks it off and sets it next to him with an added pat to the back of his suspiciously clean white phone case while heâs tying the flowers together with a loose rubber band at the ends to attach the food packets. Heâs fine with working in silence now that she's not crying anymore. He throws occasional glances in her direction, and catches her watching his hands while fiddling with her own. Her brows were furrowed and her mouth was twitching.Â
âWill you text me?â She asked him.Â
Heâs careful not to bruise any of the petals as he sets them down again, pausing with his ministrations to pick up his phone. He wiggles his eyebrows at her and types a quick âHi. Itâs Harry :)â. He hits send, âuntil youâre sick of me.â
âI donât think thatâs possible.â She shakes her head, and Harryâs reminded Rachel McAdams in The Notebook while sheâs in complete denial of her feelings for Noah. The comparison makes his heart flutter, considering the romance of the onscreen couple. âHow much do I owe you?âÂ
Harry waves her off, âitâs on the house.â She begins to argue, but Harry stops her before she starts rambling again, âyâbetter go or youâll be late, love.â He holds out the arrangement to her, tufts of babyâs breath poking out from between the vibrant dahlias like fluffy clouds, the feverfew looking like miniature white daisies in the center.Â
She looks at it, and back at him before huffing, âfine, but youâll have to let me return the favor.â
âOf course,â he smirks, âwith dinner, maybe?âÂ
Theyâre both gleaming at each other now, âokay.â Y/n takes a step back, her body half twisted as she walks away, but it remains like that for a moment as her eyes rake him up and down, a murmur following, âbye, Harry.âÂ
His veins charge with electricity, and his dark taffy lips part at her actions. Had she just checked him out? He doesnât recover quick enough to return her goodbye because the previous swirl of arousal in his navel was bristling back to life at the implications of that look. Calm, slow, steady, and her eyes remained doe-like and innocent.Â
She had to have known exactly what she was doing, whispering his name the way she had, looking over her shoulder and under her eyelashes the way she did. Deviously provoking his thoughts to begin a new with a reinspired fervor. The space in his underwear was growing tighter by the second, a blissful ache swelling.Â
Before any other customer stepped in after her, Harry locked the door, and jogged up the stairs to prepare himself a nice, hot bath, simultaneously cursing and thanking the stupid fucking delivery men. Â
********
Harry canât stop thinking.Â
Obviously, this is a huge issue for him. He was constantly thinking, and well, who wasnât? The process of thoughts wisping around in his brain was one that he often put an unnecessary amount of energy into because he had no one to filter these thoughts onto, releasing them through a conversation to prevent the exhaustion of his brain and heart. A prime example of these mishaps being the depressing slump that occupied his demeanor that very morning.Â
This?
This was different.
As soon as the apartment door was shut behind him, Harry pulled the suffocating sweatshirt off of his upper body, fingers hooking in at the collar and yanking it off with a swift tug. It landed somewhere on his kitchen floor, and he didnât stop to take note of its final destination. Instead, his legs instinctively took him to his bathroom.Â
Chest heaving, Harry walked to the small window leaking sunlight and rolled the stick between his fingers to close the blinds. His thumb dipped into the waistband of his boxes and dragged them down lopsidedly, the tiger tattoo roaring as it became exposed. When the blinds are fully closed, the white extension clangs against the shutters from his aggressive release. His body was slowly being consumed by a raging fire stoked by the illicit images his brain conjured of the innocent, unsuspecting y/n.
His inner turmoil consisted of guilt for using her image that way and justification from the conspiring rake of her eyes along the upper half of him that was visible behind the counter. He was so fixated by her, that her look alone felt like a tempting caress along his skin. And it all happened in a matter of fucking seconds. Thatâs how gone he was. Thatâs how fucking gone he was. Harry guesses that the easy excitement also had to do with the fact that he hadnât gotten laid in a while (he only ever gets lucky when he goes out to the bars with Mitch or Jeff, and theyâd been gone for a significant amount of time) and the strong affinity he had for the girl who bought flowers from him. Â
Explanation or not, he had to do something about the problem in his pants. He was painfully hard, and when he shucked his pants off fully, his underwear dragged with the movement and pressed against the tip of his swollen prick. A darkened patch of moisture bloomed where the head was, and he saw stars at the short pressure. He wouldnât take his pants off just then, though. He liked to stall his pleasure as much as he could so that when he finally did cum, his stomach muscles contracted and his toes remained curled for more than ten seconds.Â
He twisted the golden knobs of his tub so that the water would come rushing out at a borderline scalding temperature, and opened the small cabinet above the toilet for a bottle of almond and coconut shea butter bubbles. He uncapped it and bent over the edge of the tip, the cool, porcelain lip touching his crotch and provoking a choked whimper to leave him. Jerking his hips back, he poured the soapy liquid into the spot where the water cascaded, and retracted his hand when the beginning of froth formed along the surface.Â
The heady sweet smell permeated the air with the rising levels of bubbles, and Harry couldnât wait any longer. Because he liked to torture himself, he closed his eyes and slowly dragged the hell of his hand over the outline of his cock, a groan ripping though the silence. Itâs so painfully good, that he does it one more time, and he jolts forward. He removes his hand, slips his thumbs underneath the waistband of his boxers, and lugs the fabric down his hips at an excruciatingly slow pace. The head of his member smearing precum all along as he moves and when he gets caught in the ripples of his boxers the muscles in his thighs flex at the ripple of pleasure that zips into his nerves.Â
âFuck,â he hissed under his breath. His mind was a spinning vintage reel of slideshow images of y/n. Y/n on bruised knees, her mouth wide open and her own drool on her tits, the tip of his cock flat on her tongue as she pleads with weepy eyes for him to cum down her throat. When he finally springs free of his underwear, a hefty slap rings out as his dick collides against his abdomen, right on the space underneath his belly button.Â
Thereâs a stripe of liquid on the trail left by the mushroom head of his prick, and Harryâs eyes roll to the back of his head, throat straining as he hovers over the bathtub. He doesnât remember the last time heâs ever been this hard over a girl before, and itâs driving him crazy. He doesnât know if heâll be able to last as long as he usually does. As he swings a leg over the edge of the tub, the hot water encasing his calf, heâs thinking about how soft she is. The inside of her wrist and the palm of her hand. If sheâs that soft on an external part of her body thatâs used everyday, he can only wither away at the idea of what the inside of her thighs feel like.Â
Bubbles are swarming up now, swathing his thighs and buttocks as he sinks into the sloshing water. When heâs completely seated and satisfied with the belly-button level of water, he clumsily throws a hand in the direction of the knobs to shut them off, and reclined his head against the curved end of the tub with his eyes shut.Â
He hikes up his knees so that theyâre resting against the porcelain walls, and mindlessly ruts up into the water at the filthy images heâs picturing, white foam collecting in sparse clouds over the math on his chest. He doesnât know whatâs gotten into him. Itâs as if his body is being transported back to the moment his hips clashed with y/nâs. At the recollection, his mouth drops and his eyebrows pinch in a silent moan. The feel of her flesh underneath his fingertips has him bobbing in the water, and the next ideation has him gripping the base of his cock.Â
Vividly, he pictured her on all fours, keening back onto him as her pussy enveloped him in warmth, a warmth that is almost replicated by the temperature of the water, dripping and making a mess of him but whatâs turning him on most of all is the easy flushness of their bodies. He had felt the way her bum gave way under his hold, and he imagined the bounce of her flesh as he thrusted into her.Â
He moaned a broken call of her name with his eyes still shut, and heard the trickling of water as his fist rolled up his stiff prick, squeezing at the tip so that a few more droplets of precum dribbled out. With his thumb, he rubbed over the red mushroom head and lathered it in slow, leisurely circles, a throb pulsating with the beat of his heart as he returned to flicking his wrist over himself.Â
The way that he looked at him and the sound of his name on her lips seared into his memory. Airy and willowy, similar to it resonated in his brain with the fantasy of sinking into her for the first time, stretching her and having her preen and arch with desperate whimpers of his name for more. Harry considered himself to be âwell-endowedâ and his size was a factor of what sent him careening over the edge as girls mewled over his size after heâd bottomed out. He wanted y/n to mewl under him, both of them falling apart at the seams at the mutual pleasures because if Harryâs this broken over just the thought of her, then heâs sure heâs going to lose himself beyond recognition after heâs buried himself into her velvety walls, slick with her arousal and so fucking warm.Â
Just as she had been earlier that day. There had been two layers between them- the fabric of Harryâs pants and her panties- yet, he was still able to feel an immense heat from the apex of her thighs against his cock. He needed more than this. He needed her, not just his hand driving him closer to the edge.Â
His jaw clenched as he bit back on a particularly loud moan, for no reason other than he enjoyed self-sabotage from time to time, and the speed of his jerking hand increased. His other hand gripped the side of the tub, and his legs flexed as he began to thrust up into his own fist, a trail of bubbles sticking to the tanned muscles. The cut rectangles of muscles of his abdomen glistened like freshly chopped cubes of apricot with the droplets of water that remained clinging to him. His breath came in labored, strained puffs as the palm of his hand twisted, tightening at the tip and loosening at the base.Â
For a moment, he paused and cupped his balls, massaging them as the fantasy in his head continued. His mouth wrapping around y/nâs nipples, her eyes glazed over from previous orgasm that he wanted so badly to give her. Sheâd whine something soft and quiet to match her personality, âplease, Harry, please I want more. Need another Harry, pleaseâ, and heâd speed up the movement of his hips, driving deep into her and cooing into her ear about, âcâmon, darling. Give mâanother then. Yâwant it so bad, yeah? Give me aâfucking ânotherâ, and sheâd release a peircing moan that explodes in his eardrums while arching into him. Sheâd squeeze impossible tight around him, gushing with her own cum.Â
The water in Harryâs tub sloshes around his ankles, and the muscles of his abdomen clench so that heâs closing in on himself, sputtering on an outrageously loud cry that he canât contain and his hand increases the speed of his filthy ministrations because heâs right on the edge. Heâs about to fucking cum and the back of his eyelids burns with the possible variances of y/nâs face in ecstasy provided by him with his nose deep in her cunt, lapping at the sweet honey that spills with every whimper of, âplease let me cum, Harry. Iâll do anything, Iâll be good, please let me cum.Â
He tensed violently, his face contorted painfully as white ropes spurt from the tip of his cock over his fist and onto his chest, blending with the white almond foam. His feet are braced against the edge of the tub and his head falls back and his stomach tenses even further, the final leaks of his cum dribbling out.Â
With the fuzziness that comes after an orgasm, his body melts back into the water thatâs still warm, and his jerks with a pant as he allows his softening prick to sink into the water. The head on his hair is matted in a chocolate smear across his forehead, and his lips are a raging heart of cherry blossoms, parted with arduous gasps of recovery breath. His hands fall into the water at his sides, and with the lapping movement of the liquid against his sensitive member, he ruts into nothing again.Â
Reclined with his eyes closed and heartbeat slowing, Harry murmurs a final, âfuck me,â at the extreme sensations that had raked through his body.Â
Somewhere in the muffled distance, his phone dings with the notification of a text message, and with a tired noise of resentment, he sits up and reaches for his sweatpants that lay in a messy puddle besides the tub. His fingers drip darkening spots onto the grey material as he rummages for his phone, and then he finally clicks it on...
Itâs her name, lighting up his screen, and the text reads:Â
y/n <3 : so⊠dinner?Â
Harry doesnât think heâs ever crushed on a girl this hard before because even though heâs just completely physically spent himself, thereâs something stirring in the depths of his tummy just at seeing the heart she put next to her name.Â
He couldnât be happier.Â
* Â Â * Â Â * Â Â * Â Â * Â Â *
and here he is!! what do you guys think?? pls pls pls leave your feedback in my askbox! iâd love to hear your thoughts! and if you really really loved it, donât be afraid to press that reblog button <3333
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from thee quibblah putting this in here for the future WHEN foreigner's god goes up pls do a director's cut xoxooxox mwah
hello THEEEEE quibblah! thank u for this question also when can I expect ur formal mailed apology for WTRF because that second chapter put me in a DITCH
anyway. SUPER, SUPER long post under the cut! because I have no chill! have never had chill! idk what chill is, to be frank!
SO - I was actually so nervous to put the long snippet out there that had this quote in it:
"Iâm dead, she thinks, even as she feels the steady thump-thump against her ribs, Iâm dead. Iâm dead. He found us. Weâre dead."
because I was like oh that basically gives up the whole game lol, but luckily it was not so obvious that people immediately knew I was referencing canon. WHEW! I mean, a few people guessed, but thankfully if any other people figured it out they kept it to themselves so I wouldn't have a meltdown HAHA
I wanted the first flashback to be of Harry because 1) it immediately sets up what the past lives were without me having to explicitly say it (woohoo less world-building for me, a Lazy Person) and 2) I can establish that this is going to really center on undoing the tragedy of canon. I haven't really read a lot of 'lovers in a past life' fics, but one thing that has nagged at me when I have is that I want to know why these people got a second chance. what was so tragic about their past lives? why do they deserve a do-over?
and if anyone deserves a fucking do-over, it's canon Jily.
--
this scene also has possibly one of my favorite lines of the entire fic, which is:
"The stoplight switches from red to green, and without knowing why, Lily flinches."
I actually stared at that line for a good few minutes after writing it, because it felt like such a good, concise encapsulation of the entire plot of the story - she doesn't know what's going on, or why her body is reacting like it is, but she sees this flash of green light in front of her (obvious allusion to what her last sight was in canon as Voldemort cast the killing curse) and has a physical, visceral reaction. it's also more subtle of a line than I'm usually able to write, lol.
--
fun fact about the case I give Lily: that's actually based on when I worked for a French pastry store in college as a barista, and they made me sign a contract like that upon hiring, which was just...absurd. and then I showed it to my dad, who's a commercial litigator, and he responded with "that is the least enforceable contract I've ever seen in my life." so. fuck you, mister J. burrows.
also, for those wondering, Burrows and Elkins ended up settling for a reduced sum a few months later. neither Lily or James cared.
--
THIS lawyerly passage:
"At this, Lily can only quirk an incredulous brow; heâs just violated one of the cardinal rules of practicing law. Heâs mentioned fairness.
Fairness has no place in a court of law, and neither does it in this conference room. Settlements and verdicts arenât decided based upon whatâs fair, or even whatâs right; theyâre decided based upon who adheres to a contract moreâor alternately, who decides first to accuse the other of not adhering to said contract. In criminal cases, this contract is the law; in civil cases, itâs the documents and agreements that assign the distribution of money.
Every competent lawyer knows this. Frankly, every incompetent lawyer knows it, too, but they choose to try and leverage it anyway, because theyâre either too emotional or too lacking in logic not to. Itâs one of the first things taught in any legal education."
comes from a book I read in which a Contracts prof makes a very similar argument on the first day with his 1L class. I took a few liberties and am willing to admit that the whole "in civil cases, it's the documents and agreements that assign the distribution of money" is a bit contrived, but I wanted to show off how knowledgeable and sharp Lily is. so. inner monologue to the rescue!
--
ok I haven't really talked about this before, but writing those flashback scenes was HARD. honestly one of the harder things I've ever tried to write - trying to find a concise, legible way of describing the sensation of having an audiovisual hallucination was damn near impossible!! so saying "the world flickers" was me just being like WELL I GUESS IT DOES
--
the email-countersuit scene is where I really throw all knowledge of civil trial proceedings into the wind and say fuck it. would those reviews have actually been enough for a libel suit? do lawyers need to notify opposing counsel when filing a countersuit? do they need to communicate that via phone or email or letter? would Lily's counterclaim to his counterclaim even do anything? who the fuck knows! not me!
but that notwithstanding I did have seven separate tabs with various "how to file a countersuit" "what do barristers do vs solicitors" "how to set up a deposition" articles open at all times when writing. I am now seeing targeted ads for Men's Warehouse suits. FML.
--
the Sirius scene is....one of my favs.
THIS wonderful moment:
"It finally takes Lilyâs own screeching objectionâyou two should be ashamed of yourselves, I know exactly what youâre doing, this venue provides a free lunch at half-noon so youâre asking nonsense question to keep this going, did you think I wouldnât knowâto get the meeting back on-track."
is quite literally word-for-word something my mom did in the 80s when a bunch of asshole lawyers kept asking bullshit questions to her witness during a depo because they wanted a catered lunch. and she actually yelled this at them. fucking queen shit.
also, I felt no need to include Peter in the flashback because there was just no way he'd contribute to that. and he wasn't going to make an appearance IRL so, goodbye sir, u are not needed
--
Remus as an A&E doctor made so much sense to me. he would subject himself to that much stress.
another fav passage!
"When Lily was twenty, she went on a trip to Paris with her best friend, and they watched the movie Inception for the first time in the hotel room. The next day, she walked the same streets sheâd seen explode and fold inward onto themselves, and she biked to the same bridge where Ariadne grabbed ahold of the world and turned it into mirrors for her to shatter.
Hearing Remus confirm his friendship with James Potter gives her the same feeling; that sheâs bearing witness to the intersection of fiction and reality, something grounded in the living world that holds a single, enduring tether to the imaginary."
I know this was very random of me, but I was not sure how to describe the feeling that Lily must have had when realizing that her subconscious brain has somehow predicted that Remus and James would know each other, and then I was like - oh, let's have her think about a movie and reconcile it with the real world.
plus, idk if anyone picked up on this, but the entire premise of inception is the mingling of dreams and reality. HMMMM? HMMMMMMM?
--
the dancing-to-the-beatles scene was the first thing that made me kinda cry writing the story. and I listened to blackbird while writing it, so that Made Things Worse. also, suze, that one was for u, my Beatles queen. ty for the tears xo
--
"Then, one day, he sends her a link to an upcoming exhibit at the V&A called Masters of European Impressionism. Sheâd been staring at the same link a few days prior, but had clicked off, abashed by ticket prices.
The link comes with a short message: my family are members, so we got some extra tickets weâre not going to use. I donât know why, but you seem like the type to be a fan of impressionism. Let me know if you want the tix."
yeah I like impressionist art! and all of my art friends make fun of me for it because it's apparently very plebeian of me to have it be my fav style! so I was like fuck u Lily is going to like European Impressionism and we're all going to respect her for it.
also, we can expect another reference to Van Gogh in Bond and Free. just so u know that I know that u know.
--
one of the things that made me so nervous about putting this piece out there is the lack of dialogue. like, most of their communications happen via text/email/phone call, not really in-person. in fact, they see each other 4 times (once without dialogue!) before the Halloween Scene, and I debated for a while if that would be a turn-off for people or if everyone would just skip over the descriptive bits. so, thanks for not doing that, if you didn't!
--
SPEAKING OF the coffee scene:
"They run into each other in a Starbucks in Victoria the first weekend of September. He makes puns. She rolls her eyes but laughs, forcing reluctance for whatever semblance of disdain she can try and play at in his presence. He pays for her coffee. When she objects, stating that thereâs no reason to single her out, she can pay for her own coffee, so he might as well just pay for everyone elseâs coffee, while heâs at it, for godâs sake, he just blinks at her and shrugs.
And then he pays for everyone elseâs coffee."
if you read the structure of the sentences in that paragraph, everything James does is very simple - 'he makes puns.' 'he pays for her coffee.' 'he just blinks at her and shrugs' while Lily's sentences are super long and run-on.
this is because I wanted to give everyone a very visceral look into the way that lily perceives their situation: she feels like she's in the middle of a very complex internal conflict, but to her, James is cool and collected and unbothered - she's not even registering any minute action he does other than 'he pays for her coffee' and 'he makes puns.'
if this had been from his perspective, it probably would have been reversed!
--
the war scene AHHHH
so, 2nd time J has called her after/during a dream. AKA, this man is having the same dreams as you, miss Lily, and he very much needs to confirm that you're ok and safe, but in this one we see him regret the decision and hang up before she can answer, unlike after The Sex Dreams, in which this man was so thirsty and so confused he just picked up the phone very desperately wanted to hear her voice. HA simp
--
can y'all tell I have never been to a psychic?
the Splintered Star thing was really fun to think about though, and I'm honestly not sure where it came from. it just felt very Fated and Destiny-based and I liked that it kinda-sorta explained the traversing of universes/reincarnation.
also. y'all rockin with the multiverse???
--
SO. so. the wedding scene. Yowza.
I know that it's a bit wild for Lily to just up and ask him what happens when they die, because like wow bitch u rlly said 0-100 Real Quick, but at this point she is so frazzled and sleep-deprived and desperate to sort her head out that it actually felt very honest to have her just skip over the small talk.
conversely, this also means that she hears his answer from a slightly-less-logical standpoint, and just takes it as a sign that he doesn't remember her instead of investigating further. but like. she's fucking tired y'all!!!!
--
YEAAAHHHHH the Train Station scene.
this made me cry super hard writing. I hope that is consolation to everyone. I was nervous because I know in canon it's like, The Veil, but this felt the most reminiscent of when Harry is about to die in DH, and I also really wanted to establish a sense of movement with their deaths. they don't just cross a Veil, they get on a train and they don't know where it's going to take them.
also, fun fact, I had another part of this scene mapped where the train makes a stop and they see Harry about to confront Voldemort in DH, and J gets to say his famous "until the very end" line, but I was pretty sure at that point I'd be run off Tumblr with pitchforks, so I just left it. but now all of you know. so. WHOOPS
--
Did I just add the detail that Harry was dressed up like a little deer when Voldemort attacked? Yes, I did.
Did I also add the detail that James's wand was in the laundry basket because he's a Frazzled Dad and that's why he attacked Voldemort without a wand? Yes, I did.
Did I then continue to add the detail that Lily hears James's body hit the floor? Yes. I really did.
It's ok, I hated myself too.
--
the Halloween reunion scene was...so hard. writing this story was so tough overall, because I had to not only give Modern J&L a reason to fall for each other independently of their last incarnations, but with this, build up to their reunion with enough emotional tension, and then on top of that, create an event or moment that would trigger them both to just lose their minds and reunite, even disregarding The Wedding. and adding the flashbacks on top of that?? GOD.
so. Halloween!
"The broken fragments of her past life are fusing together messily inside her head. Every blink of her eyes is a fleeting, flashing memory.
Mum and dad in Cokeworth. Petunia. Hogwarts. Magic. The war. The Order.
James. Harry.
Lily lurches off of the couch, nauseous, and tumbles down to her knees, hiccuping and gagging as sounds and smells and sights run a blitzkrieg on her brain, and sheâs London in the First World War, time-weathered buildings crumbling within her, houses and schools and cathedrals burning into ash, giving way to rubble. Itâs too much, to see all of it at once; to be two people, to share all the pain and the fear and the joy in vibrant technicolor."
I really, really wanted to get into the physicality of this. I think it would have to be painful and unpleasant and shocking to remember all of these things, and I think that the magnitude of her realization is part of what makes this moment so important: she doesn't just see flashbacks of a random other life - she has full, unmitigated understanding of who she is AND was. and then, because of this, she realizes she needs to see James there.
--
I loved writing J standing in the rain outside of her apartment. it felt equal parts tragic and sexy LMAO and absolutely something I could imagine him doing.
also, this passage:
"Logically, Lily knows that there are no witches or wizards or wands in this world, understands that whatever earth she lived in for her past life was built on different fundamental elements than this one, but when she throws the door open, she decides that there must be some sort of dormant, kinetic magic swimming below levels of dirt and magma, running subterranean pathways that sizzle and spark."
was so important to me - I had it written pretty much from the outset. because, yeah, I've sort of convinced you all that there's no magic in this world, but to get back to the base of it all: these people are soulmates who have been reincarnated. do we really believe that there's no otherworldly business going on?
another favorite passage appears:
"Their eyes meet, and itâs a star in supernova, the Big Bang, the creation of the universe. Suddenly there are entire galaxies within her, constellations of loss and longing and joy that crystallize under his eyes, shooting to the surface of her skin and attempting to take flight from her body.
A splintered star, Madame Arnaud had called her. A splintered star, looking for its lost fragments.
But to look at a star is to see it burned out, to stare at its ghost as the lightyears of distance trick the eye, and this, too, is true as she look at James; she doesnât just see him, but the ghost of who he was, the mirror image of him forged from a life of war and magic, one they shared together, a stellar collision in a different cosmos."
yeah I had the two bracketing paragraphs written before I even wrote the Madame Arnaud scene, so then when I realized I'd written a star metaphor, I was like...oh dope! some continuity? as a treat?
--
this moment:
"âYouâyou left me,â she chokes as this misplaced grief swallows her, bites her in half and leaves her in sawtooth parts. âYou didnâtâyou didnât have your wand, Jamesââ (somehow, she knows heâd left it in their bedroom, even without remembering where her own wand had been that night) ââand youâI had toâwhy did you leave meââ
James reaches for her arms, and she nearly jerks back from his touch, but she hates the distance between themâbecause, really, isnât that what this is all about?âso she lets him pull her forward until his face meets her neck, mouthing apologies into her skin."
was also really vital for me. is it logical for her to be mad at him? absolutely not. but she's just been bulldozed by every possible human emotion ever, the biggest of which is grief, so I wanted their first moments to be messy and angry and sad, because I feel like the people we love most are the people we can share those vulnerable moments with without fear of reprisal.
--
THEEE Oops Baby is coming!
I didn't actually think I was going to include this originally, I imagined the end of it being the Halloween reunion and then maybe tacking on an epilogue on Tumblr or something, but I came to the conclusion that I couldn't mention Harry and have him be such a vital part of the story without resolving his arc, too.
does that mean that there might be a real-world Weasley troupe and Granger family out there? POSSIBLY. who knows! I wanted to leave his future up to interpretation, with the only real stipulation being: he's going to have a happy and healthy life with his very alive young parents! because I said so!
--
"When they tell Sirius and Remus, something passes through the two menâs facesâsomething cloudy and distant, like theyâre peeking behind a curtain that only they can see, and in it is some collection of wonders, some world appearing only to them."
anyone catch this moment? I debated it for a WHIIIIILE. but I wanted to give a nod to the fact that the lost souls from the HP canon weren't just Jily, but instead, all of the people lost too young who deserved so much better. Especially those fated to meet, like The Marauders.
--
a final few favorite passages that made me feel warm and fuzzy inside:
"âHeâll be here soon,â James murmurs, more to himself than her. âNot long now.â
Lily looks at him, watches as he traces a fingertip over the soft swell of her belly. Something warm and gentle settles in her chest. It stretches out and loosens its limbs, pressing golden handprints into the space between her lungs and painting murals of sunlight along her ribs.
âDo you hear that, Harry?â She whispers. âYour mum and dad have been waiting for you.â"
and
"James leans up and presses a kiss to her abdomen. âWeâll do it right this time,â he says softly, to her or to Harry or bothâshe canât be sure. âWeâll get more time.â
Yes, Lily thinks, they will. She looks up through the bedroom window. The London lights are dimmer than usual tonight, and above them, the sky is twinkling with stars."
YEAH THEY WILL. BECAUSE I SAID SO.
--
I guess the last thing I'll say here is that so much of the premise of this fic came from something a therapist said to me two years ago lmao - which is that trauma is often categorized as 'non-realization'; either the non-realization that an event is happening, or the non-realization that the event has happened, and that it's over, and that you're no longer in it.
this entire piece kind of felt like me exorcising the trauma of Jily's lives out of their bodies. it became super healing to allow them to work through this stuff by getting a second chance but still acknowledging their past life.
so! that seems like a healthy way to deal with fictional characters! ha ha!
--
omg. if you read this whole thing............good god, you are a champ. this was so long.
#ask#anon#quibblah my beloved#foreigner's god#me just writing a dissertation on my own fanfiction for no reason#this is so long...I am so sorry......
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Nocturne op.72 no.1Â â Essay
Hi, welcome to my long-forgotten tumblr I barely remembered existed. Dust and cobwebs aside, this is an essay I initially wrote in French for a Literature class. Don't ask me how the hell I found the will to hand this in to my teacher, bless his soul.
A couple of years later, I found that essay in the depth of a folder on my computer. I remembered what was in it, to a point, but when I decided to read it again, I got very emotional (and very mortified 'cause oh god school). And during the following weeks, I started thinking about a lot of things that were still floating unresolved within my head. But then, I decided to write. And after a few days of internal debate, I posted the first chapter of A Sea of Silence.
It's been months since I finished that story, and those months have not been kind to me for many reasons. And maybe that's why, this week, I started thinking about that essay. When I did, I was overcome with a desire to share it with the worldâand especially with the people who read my fic. So here it is, hastily translated but just as honest. Please note that it discusses anxiety.
And so, thank you if you take the time to read this, and an even bigger thank you if you read the essay, too!Â
Nocturne op.72 no.1
When I think back on my childhood, I hear the sound of piano. Various melodies follow me, accompanying me in a waltz between memories. Itâs my motherâs interpretation of Beethovenâs Moonlight Sonata that haunts the quiet moments. My sister and I would play in an adjacent room, glowing with delight as our mother started the first movement. Itâs the pieceâs somber and melancholic tone that colours my memory, but itâs a good kind of darknessâthe kind that feels like the soft touch of night as you walk under the stars. My mother didnât stop there; she would segue into the second movement, a graceful interlude that almost got swallowed in between the grandiosity of the other movements. And at last, she would tackle the final piece. I remember the anticipation; I remember wanting to watch her fingers fly over the keys. We would sneak in the living roomâdonât make so much noise, youâre gonna bother her!âand thus we became the spectators to a private concert. The combination of semiquavers and staccato, everything played presto agitato, was the most fascinating thing. And despite the intensity and the tempestuous rhythm, I would sense my muscles relaxing, my thoughts lightening, the frenetic beat of my heart slowing. When I listen to this piece now, thereâs still a glimpse of that long forgotten peace.
I turn six and I learn the piano. Itâs a decision that comes from me, but also from my mother. Itâs a decision that pleases me, even enchants me. The learning process goes well; I love to learn and I love to playâa rarely seen fervour seizes me. My motivation originates both from a desire to walk into my motherâs footsteps and from a childish inclination to create noise. The teacher likes me, and the sentiment is reciprocal; she speaks with a soft voice, but underneath there is an unyielding tone that I come to respect. She nudges me forward, constantly making sure that I donât neglect my practice. I try to meet her expectations because I want to succeed, but also to maintain that impression of calm that possesses me when I sit at the piano.
The next step is to play at a recital, so we set off for the musical conservatory. Iâm ten the first time I play before an audience. Panic controls meâI worry I wonât be able to perform, and the thought loops in my mind until I believe it. I climb on the stage in spite of my terror, and the room morphs into a cage. At 10 years-old, the size of the concert hall is intimidating, to a point that my heart crawls up my throat. The exit is farâway too farâand all the stares fixed on me feel more like Iâm attending a trial than a recital. My hands become damp (how will I play if my hands slip?), but wiping them on my dress of red velvet means showing my fearâand my father always tells me not to show my fear. So I look at the floor and force my legs to move until finally, finally, I stand before the piano. I sit. Even now, I believe itâs impossible for me to play my piece, that piece I yet find so easy. I take my time adjusting the bench; once done, my hands reflexively settle over the keys. One deep breathâand I start to play. That tranquility Iâm so desperate for guides me, and the audience fades from my mind. My eyes track my fingers as they find all the notesânot one mistakeâand for a moment, itâs like Iâm floating over my body, surrendering utter control to instinct and music. Once the piece ends and my hands lift from the piano, itâs the thunderous applause that tugs me back into reality; I walk off the stage, that paralyzing feeling of fright dismissed.
The feeling that possesses me is anxiety. At 6 years-old, as I begin learning the piano, I donât know what anxiety is; the only thing I understand is that music offers solace. When I turn 10, I canât find the word to explain that emotion that assaulted me as I stepped on the stage. Itâs with time that I discover the word âanxietyâ. I see my reflection in the definitions I find in dictionaries and on the web; itâs those definitions that grasp onto me, that glue themselves over me until I cannot dissociate them from my being without ripping out of my skin. The term âanxietyâ now belongs to meâor rather, I belong to it. The years pass and my thoughts cede before it. My anxiety takes control of me for a period of my life; I have lost all mastery of myself. I graduate from high school with terrible difficulty; I drop out of college three times. But anxiety doesnât stop there; she smears her poison throughout all spheres of my life. My relationship with my family degenerates slowly but surelyâso do many of my friendships. Working becomes a hurdle because my boss at the store agitates me with her severe attitudeâit feels like nothing is never enough and everything is wrong. I cannot stand myself anymore. Anxiety seeps into my body, an army of swarming bugs that infiltrate all I am as an individual. They contaminate me from the inside, and I am nothing but a puppet, subjected to circumstances out of my control. And this lasts and lasts and lasts for eight yearsâeight long years. I lose my footing and fall into the arms of depression several times. Appointments with doctors tell me what I already knew. We try solutions and then more solutions; there are good times, scarce but cherished. But happiness and peace of mind slip through my fingers like grains of sand; I grab another handful, but it was never meant to last. These feelings end up seeming distant, unreachable, impossible. I mind myself to the fact that I will have to live with the physical and emotional wounds my anxiety inflicts on me. Time and experience allow me to gauge my level of comfort and how to react; sometimes, I cannot step out of my apartment. And so life goes onâand I am swept away by the tides.
Thinking back on this slice of my life, Iâve come to several conclusions. There were many happenings that were completely out of my controlâand yet, as I dig deeper and deeper, I realize that this deviation originates from one thing in particular.
The year I turn 15, I experience an acute pain in my right wrist. Holding a pen for longer than a few minutes is impractical; playing piano on a regular basis is impossible. Those news, validated by a medical consultation, are not surprisingâbut they are heartbreaking. Later, the pain extends to my shoulder. Within weeks, I become an unwilling witness to the collapse of my dream of studying and teaching piano. The problem comes from within me, within my bodyâmy love for the piano is the trigger to this pain. Iâm told that a cure is implausibleâyou can do exercises to lessen the pain, and you have to eliminate repetitive movements since they will worsen it, and yes, miss, that includes the piano. I used to play piano at least one hour a day, something that unconsciously kept my anxiety at bayâbut the inability to play for longer than a few minutes opens the door to my anxiety. I discover myself anew when Iâm 16: tirelessly worried, always anxious, terribly distrustful. Itâs the start of the downward spiral. I am not me anymore, I am someone else. Anxiety is my mother, instability is my father, fear is my sister. I am reborn into an unknown world dubbed Real Life by my family, who firmly believe this is part of being a teenager. But I donât believe in this Real Life, and I pray to all and nothing for a miracle. I only know one line of prayer so I make up my own. I fill fictive litanies with my fears and my hopes. Amen. I refuse to consider this existence as True because to me, it can only be False. But my convictions are tossed aside, their dismissal hammered into me endlessly. Itâs almost as if a huge neon sign hangs on a wall of my bedroom: Welcome to Real Life! But all I see are ridiculous directives that only bring misfortuneâdonât forget to register for our latest draw! Discover what setbacks you will endure next! I donât want thisâI refuse, I reject, I refute. Itâs the song of my mind, playing on repeat; I want to believe itâI want to believe it more than anything else because I have exhausted all of my solutions and the future beyond is veiled in uncertainty.
But with time, I realize that simply wanting something, no matter how much, doesnât mean it will slip into the world through the cracks of my resolve. And so, I begin to toil over my own fate. I try to shape it. I fail. I try again. Itâs a cycle with no end in sight. I wander aimlessly through life, and thus I discover more of myself and I try to understand. Questions assail me; most of the time, there is no answer; when there are, they are often unpleasant. Still, I accept themâbecause I have learned that closing my eyes and rejecting a reality will not bring me anything. This crushing problem, this anxiety that manipulates me, I try to be aware of itâand in the end, I accept it. She is part of me, too intrinsic for me to surrender her; she welded her existence in my foundations, and if I break free, I negate myself. But what crystallizes with time is the recognition that Iâm living a fight that I believed lost before even entering the arena. Itâs an intimidating fight: my adversary is formidable, and there is no end in sight; itâs an everlasting battle that occurs every hour, every minute, every second. And yet, I am not doneâI gather my arsenal, I warm up, and I entre the arena. No refereesâthis isnât a fair fight; there cannot be a winner, only moments of victory. My adversary steps forward, and in her, I see meâme as I was for eight long years. The signal goes off and we begin. No turning back now.
Strangely, what helps me survive the daily fights is time. Throughout this turbulent journey, my wrist undertakes its never-ending recovery. Nine years later, the dreadful pain I felt at every move has become a memory. I live alone now, and getting access to a piano is not always easy; neither is it regular. But one dayâone day, I decide to try again. I make my way to my motherâs house on a day where she and her husband are absent; the fragility of my resolve hangs over me, and I cannot let it waver out of self-consciousness. In the basement are all of my motherâs sheet musicâall of my sheet musicâand it takes a lot of searching before I finally find the last piece I learned when I was 15. The last piece I ever played. Too eager, I snatch Chopinâs Nocturne op.72 no.1Â off the floor, grabbing a few more sheet music from that part of my life forever ago. At last, I sit on the piano bench. I open the booklet, flipping through the pages until I find the Nocturne; itâs one of my favourites, whether by coincidence or a design of my own. But itâs with wretched bitterness that I realize I am unable to play the piece. Not only has it been nine years, but my dexterity has vanished, bidding me goodbye with a mocking smile. My fingers each weigh a pound; I hear myself strike the keys with a mortifying clumsiness; the resulting sound is disappointing, closer to chaotic noise than the flowing music of my memories. Nothing happens like I want it to. However, the same passage of time that helped my injury gave me the strength to cross out the word âabandonâ from my vocabulary. I sometimes know victory, more often I know defeat, but what has become unfamiliar is capitulation. So I close the booklet, hiding the piece I yearned for, and I pick another one. Itâs an easy piece, but in truth, nothing seems easy anymore; the piece is a crutch, a stepping stone towards more. In time, I will get sick of hearing Chopinâs Waltz op.69 no.2, my mind saturated by the melody from months of practice. Itâs a challenge, and I start to get obsessed with the notion of learning this piece, because learning it means I can learn more. Nothing will stop me.
There is progress, but itâs slow and itâs tedious. Each week, I ride the bus to my motherâs house so I can practice for one hour, sometimes two. These hours are precious; I try not to squander them and I try even harder to remind myself this is just the beginning. My wrist still hurts at times; whenever I test my limits, a zap of pain echoes through my hand, signalling the end of the practice. It slows me down, frustrates me to no end, but the possibility of not playing for another nice years snaps me out of those low moments. And one day, six months later, I pick up Chopinâs Nocturne op.72 no.1 again. I start with the left hand; the constant rhythm of the triplets played legato rips the stitches of a long-buried wound. A ghost rises out of itâitâs Me as I was, and it possesses me, guiding my hand with its cold touch. I play the first line, then the second; soon enough, I jump to the second page. I am not here, not really; rather, I am lost to that old fragment of beloved peace. Now that I recognize the beast in me as anxiety, I finally understand that those moments of solace happen when I hear the twinkling notes of the piano. And so I get on my feet in the arena and I stand ready to continue the eternal fight. There are other ways to keep anxiety away, to rationalize it, and I think back on my first fifteen years, nearly empty of anguish, full of other pains, but also filled with hours of music. I learn Chopinâs Nocturne in three months. Itâs not perfectâit will never beâbut I can play it. I play it until I can do so with my eyes closed.
The year I decide to sit at the piano again, I return to school. The first semester is trying; I havenât studied seriously in over five yearsâgood habits are difficult to unearth. I try to keep my demanding job despite the crushing amount of pressure, but there comes a moment where I cannot breathe under that weight, and stress wins once more. Everything appears ready to crumble before it began. Luckily, my mother realizes that my fragile pyramid of cards is about to fall, and she wakes me up with harsh and well-aimed and true words; we donât always understand each other then, and feelings get bruised, but in time, things will change for the better. I still fail the classes I took; I search for a new job. My anxiety hit me with an uppercut that could have turned the tables in her favour, but I stand again and againâI stand long enough to finish college a year later. I am 24 the day I hand in my final project that allows me to graduate. As I walk out of the building, there is pride accompanying me, but most of all, itâs a soothing sensation of satisfaction that wraps itself around me. It resembles that peace of mind I find from the piano, and that is what makes me smile.
The next fall, I have my own piano. The opportunity to play whenever is still incredible. Not long before the purchase, the pain in my wrist flares once more, stronger than before. But this time, I know what to expect. I adapt instead of running away; Iâm not 15 anymore and I have so much more experience in the suitcase I carry through life. I get tests done in hope of a permanent solution; they reveal nothing new, but the professional advice that follows those tests opens the door to new possibilities to rein in the pain. Those possibilities are comforting in their own way; that absolute sense of defeat is now barely discernable.
I still believe that the Me from over ten years ago will not come back to life; she doesnât exist anymore; her only vestige is her love for music. But that is alrightâI am not the same person I was at 6 years-old when all I knew was the music weaving through the house. I am someone else, so I baptize myself anew. I allow myself the sanctity of a second chance, that unreachable notion always evading me. But this time, I chase it. I grasp it close to my heart. I take itâand I live it.
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42: top 3s
1: Top 3 ice cream flavors - classic vanilla, birthday cake/birthday batter, bubblegum
2: Top 3 Disney Movies - Mulan, Onward, Soul (but this changes frequently lol)
3: Top 3 vacation destinations - I've never been outside of my home country so I'll say my top 3 DREAM destinations: NYC, Hawaii, a random countryside in either France or the UK
4: Top 3 places to shop - Dynamite, Sephora, Winners/Homesense
5: Top 3 subjects of study/classes to take - English/anything creative writing related, Interior Decorating/Design, Communications?
6: Top 3 make up products - YSL Touche Eclat Foundation, literally any Mac Lipstick but it has to be matte, & Fenty Beauty contour stick
7: Top 3 music artists - Taylor Swift - Of Monsters and Men - The Lumineers
8: Top 3 spices/herbs - Cinnamon - Nutmeg (literally tastes like autumn) - Paprika
9: Top 3 drinks - Diet Coke - Hot Chocolate - Vanilla Bean Frappe
10: Top 3 apps to use - Instagram - Pinterest -iBooks
11: Top 3 months of the year - May, October, December
12: Top 3 clothing items - My black/white turtle neck, high waisted jeans, plaid blazer
13: Top 3 binge perfect tv shows - Bones, Supernatural, Brooklyn Nine Nine
14: Top 3 romantic dates - (I've never been on a date but if I had, it would be this) Evening walk, late night drive, late night coffee date (tbh anything at night feels romantic)
15: Top 3 kinds of flower - Water lilies, cherry blossoms, roses
16: Top 3 christmas movies - A Christmas Carol (2009), Home Alone, The Polar Express
17: Top 3 OTPs - Nesta and Cassian from ACOTAR series by SJM, Manon and Dorian from Throne of Glass series by SJM, Casteel and Poppy from From Blood and Ash series by JLM.
18: Top 3 quotes to describe your life - "I write not to find, but to leave" by Scherezade Siobhan - "I want to be myself again. I want to be six. I want to stop knowing everything I know" by Catherynne M. Valente - "The truth is, I pretend to be a cynic, but I am really a dreamer who is terrified of wanting something she may never get" by Joanna Hoffman.
19: Top 3 characteristics you love about yourself - my kindness bc it's not surface level kindness, but actually something deeply rooted within me - my resilience even tho sometimes it doesn't feel like resilience - my loyalty bc it is a hard as steel kind of loyalty
20: Top 3 kinds of candy - Maltesers, Kit kats, smarties
21: Top 3 ways to exercise/ be active - Walking, dancing, mowing the lawn/shoveling the sidewalk
22: Top 3 spirit animals - wolf, hummingbird, tiger (i googled it bc i didn't know and i was scared it was a joke but)
23: Top 3 petnames - I like 'lovebug', 'love', 'sweetheart'
24: Top 3 books read outside of school - The Hating Game by Sally Thorne, A Court of Silver Flames by Sarah J Maas but viewers discretion is advised, Crush by Richard Siken
25: Top 3 most used websites - Youtube, Tumblr, Pinterest
26: Top 3 people you last texted - my mom, my bestie megan, and my sister bc they're the only people i text...
27: Top 3 hashtags you use - the only time i use hashtags is if i'm trying to promote some of my writing so I'll usually use writingcommunity, writersonig, poetryonig lol
28: Top 3 instagram accounts you follow - Trista Mateer, Griefmother, obviously taylor swift
29: Top 3 guilty pleasures - buzzfeed quizzes, early 2000s music, romance novels
30: Top 3 summer activities - Going to the zoo, long evening walks, campfires and s'mores
31: Top 3 things to draw/doodle - hearts, flowers, random swirls bc it's the only thing i can doodle...
32: Top 3 aesthetics - cityscape aesthetic, autumn aesthetic, rustic aesthetic
33: Top 3 things you'd buy if you gained three million dollars - a new car, a condo, another cat
34: Top 3 ways to treat yourself - facial, a large bag of maltesers, buying the makeup i really want but have been putting off
35: Top 3 celebrity crushes - Evan Peters, Matthew Daddario, henry cavill
36: Top 3 books from your childhood - Love You Forever by Robert Munsch, The Big Friendly Giant by Roald Dahl, and Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmens
37: Top 3 accents to hear - Australian, super poshy british accent, new zealand accent
38: Top 3 scents - Fresh rain, vanilla, sweet cinnamon pumpkin from bath and body works
39: Top 3 "Friends" quotes - "WE WERE ON A BREAK" -Ross, "Guess things were just going too well for me" -also ross, and "it's so exhausting waiting for death" - phoebe
40: Top 3 cupcake flavors - tbh I haven't tried that many cupcakes so your typical vanilla, chocolate, and Pink Lady Cupcake from Babycakes Cupcakery
41: Top 3 fruits - Pomegranates, Strawberries, Raspberries
42: Top 3 places you've had amazing pizza from - Pizzahut, Dominos, Pizza73
43: Top 3 sports teams to watch - i don't
44: Top 3 crayola colors - uh, i guess red, purple, and pink??
45: Top 3 things you hope to accomplish in college - Certificates/Degrees in Copyediting and Creative Writing, and I think simply just deeper critical thinking skills when it comes to writing and books
46: Top 3 fanfictions you've read - I read more books than fanfics, I've read a couple on tumblr but don't remember the names sorry :/
47: Top 3 people you miss right now - my dad, my best friend bc she's in vancouver, taylor swift bc she's not on tumblr anymore rip
48: Top 3 fears - Failure, Loss, not achieving anything in life/not reaching my full potential
49: Top 3 favorite literary devices - Foreshadowing is always god tier, cliffhangers although evil i love those too, symbolism
50: Top 3 pet peeves - People dragging their shoes on the floor when they walk, when you tell someone your fav hobby/music artist/interest and they immediately go 'oh I hate X!', and people who go 'you're so quiet!!!' but in a way that draws in more attention and/or makes me feel more uncomfortable like i would literally rather die
51: Top 3 physical things you find attractive - Hands, nice hair, defined jawlines
52: Top 3 bad habits - Nailbiting, picking at my blemishes oops, lip biting
53: Top 3 pets you've had/wish to have - Cats bc they complete me, I've always wanted a Samoyed, and I've always wanted a turtle
54: Top 3 types of foreign food - Chicken Chow Mein, deep fried shrimp, japanese chicken wings
55: Top 3 things you want to say to someone in your lifetime - 'I quit', 'I love you', 'you changed my life'
56: Top 3 dog breeds - Samoyed, german shepherds, collies
57: Top 3 cheesy romance movies - You've Got Mail, How To Lose a Guy In 10 Days, 10 Things I Hate About You
58: Top 3 languages you speak/wish to speak - French, Sign, and maybe Japanese?
59: Top 3 series (book, movie, television) - The Cruel Prince series by Holly Black, A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J Maas (but literally only for Cassian and Nesta), From Blood and Ash by Jennifer L Armentrout
60: Top 3 pizza toppings - Mushrooms, alfredo sauce, pineapple
61: Top 3 youtubers you're subscribed to - Game Grumps, Charlotte Dobre, Megan Batoon
62: Top 3 tattoo / piercing ideas - I want to get a tattoo on my wrist of the last thing my dad ever wrote me, a hummingbird tattoo right next to it, and then a cross on my index finger
63: Top 3 awards you want to win - National Book Awards, Nobel Prize, and maybe even Goodreads Choice Awards lol
64: Top 3 emojis - Laugh/Crying emoji, the please sir emoji that kinda gives off those puss n boots eyes, and the stars emoji
65: Top 3 cars you dream of owning - 1970s Chev Impala, tbh a cute little Hyundai Venue, and maaaaybe the 1964 ferarri 250 gt luso (idk if that name was totally right but i had to do tons of googling to find it. i don't know a lot about cars and i don't really have a top 3 lol)
66: Top 3 authors - Right now I'm really into Sarah J Maas, Sally Thorne, and Holly Black maybe?
67: Top 3 historical figures - Jesus, Anne Frank, Vincent Van Gogh
68: Top 3 baby names - Ryder, Leila, Gracie
69: Top 3 DIYs - Candles, refurnishing old furniture (i.e. my mom and i painted our wooden garbage can), and really just any type of autumn diy
70: Top 3 smoothie combos/flavors - Strawberry/Banana, Mango, Strawberry-Mango
71: Top 3 songs of this month - Happier Than Ever by Billie Eilish, Biblical by Calum Scott, and Visiting Hours by Ed Sheeran
72: Top 3 questions of this post you want to be asked - I did them all bc I made it a survey instead of an ask meme ;)
73: Top 3 villains - Regina/The Evil Queen from Once Upon a Time, Cruella De Vil, and Moriarty from Sherlock
74: Top 3 Cities you want to see - Montreal, NYC, Vancouver (honorable mention: LA)
75: Top 3 recipes you want to try - different kind of salad and/or burger bowls, Stuffed bell peppers, and homemade lemon loaf
76: Top 3 dream jobs - Bestselling author, the person who runs a companies social media accounts, youtuber/blogger
77: Top 3 lucky items - tbh don't have one
78: Top 3 traditions you have - Christmas Eve Service and if I don't go to that at least incorporating reading the christmas story on christmas day or eve, idk if this counts as tradition but going to the corn maze every fall, and whenever it's easter/christmas/thanksgiving we always have a big meal w/ family
79: Top 3 things you miss about being a kid - reckless abandon, dreaming about growing up with hopefulness and no dashed hopes, experiencing holidays like halloween and christmas as a kid
80: Top 3 harry potter characters - I've never read or watched Harry Potter rip (ok well i saw the first and second (and maybe third?) movie in the sixth grade I think) but I think I really liked Hermoine, Harry obviously and Dobby
81: Top 3 lies you were told - i don't have 3, but this one has a story but basically when my sister and i were in elementary school my sister got hit by a car and so the insurance thing was that she would recieve 10k when she was 18 and as a child i thought that was unfair so my dad told me that my sister had to split it with me when we were 18 lmao obviously that didn't happen (i think i realized that wasn't true in middle school)
82: Top 3 pictures in your camera roll right now - Pictures of my cat, one of my sister in a hilarious filter, and a picture of my rocking my TS merch
83: Top 3 turn ons - Kindness, defined jawline, easy going
84: Top 3 turn offs - arrogance, unkempt, super loud and obnoxious
85: Top 3 magazines/news papers/ journals to read - I don't read much of those so I'll tell you some sites I love for writing purpose's: there's Wellstoried, justwriterlythings, springhole.net (which is filled with generators if you're stuck and also tons of infomation and advice)
86: Top 3 things you wish you had known earlier - that toad in Mario Party was wearing a mushroom hat and that it is actually not his head, that immaculate means 'clean' before i misused that word like several times over the years, and that the one turn i always take on my way to work where i thought everyone didn't know how to drive was actually bc i didn't have the right of way rip me
87: Top 3 spongebob episodes - the one episode where spongebob and patrick find a ghost ship, that one episode where they form a bikini bottom band and perform it at a football game in a little fish tank, and the one episode where squidward has his first snowball fight
88: Top 3 places to be in the world - I'd love to be in NYC, Montreal, or Hawaii
89: Top 3 things you'd do differently - I would not have applied for RDC, similarly I should have just paid the 500 dollars to the one certificate program I wanted to do instead of overthinking it, and I wish I wouldn't have ended a friendship the way I did
90: Top 3 TV shows from your childhood - Spongebob Squarepants, That's So Raven, and Hannah Montana
91: Top 3 meals you love - Turkey Burgers, Chilli, and Instant Pot Chicken Tortilla Soup
92: Top 3 kinds of tea - i don't drink tea
93: Top 3 embarrassing moments - one time in sixth grade I tripped and fell right on my face in front of my crush, this other time like a couple years ago i opened the door to my car and only realized much too late while i was staring at this random family that it was not my car, and when i went to the gas station to get gas and couldn't get my gas lid on my car opened and this guy had to help me which was already embarrassing enough but then the gas pump wouldn't work so i had to go inside to pay just to realize i forgot my wallet and had to shamefully walk back to my car and then run back inside the convenience store and then pay and then walk back to my car and finally fill my tank.
94: Top 3 holidays to celebrate - Christmas, Halloween, Thanksgiving
95: Top 3 things to do in the rain - have an existential crisis, pretend you're in a music video, walk through puddles like you're six again
96: Top 3 things to do in the snow - Sledding, Build a snowman, shovel it even tho you don't want to
97: Top 3 items you can't leave the house w/o - phone, keys, wallet
98: Top 3 movies you'd like to see - Jurassic World 3, Hotel Transylvania: Transformania bc i'm a child, and the animation of the addams family
99: Top 3 art mediums - Writing fiction/poetry, painting, music
100: Top 3 museums you've been to - Royal Tyrell Museum, Canadian History one in edmonton lol, and heritage park in calgary
101: Top 3 school memories - Middle school dances when the popular kids would grind to the song "Low" which was always an interesting experience, in the twelfth grade at winter formal when we all shouted "SHUT UP AND DANCE!" at the same time when they played Shut Up and Dance, and the day i left
102: Top 3 things you don't/Won't miss - School, my sisters ex, 2016 bc she was a rough year yikes
103: Top 3 pick up lines - "My name is Will. God's Will.", "I'd like to take you to the movies but they don't like you bring your own snacks", "are you from tennessee bc you're the only 10 i see"
104: Top 3 sports to watch - none of them
105: Top 3 taylor swift songs - all too well - exile - coney island
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october 17th 12:30
tonight i dont know what im really feeling.Â
1. Joe jonas.Â
2. ****** ******* (french)
3. ***** ***** (also french, but year before)
4. ****** **** (new york)
5. **** ******* (northern)Â
im thinking about ****. the way he looked at me. thinking of the first harry potter and the goonies. the touches on my legs when weâre just sitting. then remembering they stopped talking to me because i didnt have sex with them fast enough. the less than and then the happy train is over.Â
i think about ****** because why the fuck did i try to hang on to that for so long. they fucking sucked. blamed me for everything and i even made myself think that if i apologized-even though im not wrong-he would like me again. i fucked up there. theres so much i want to say to them but the time has gone and i no longer care to reach out anymore. they have to. on one of my many nights of crying over them, edra said to me that i was only holding on for so long because he was the first person that ive let be physical with me. i realized that it was true, and i was obsessing over it. the need to keep them close to me, hold on the sliver of something that i mostly created in my head. but i dont think he ever was. i think i rarely cross his mind. but thats on him!!! im done and over it. if he wanted more, he will say something have said something.Â
i feel like ****** never liked me as much as i liked them. i always thought i was too....odd for them. we liked the similar things, but some of my things were a little dumb...?? for their taste. i liked them because they were funny, we could make a bit together yanno? i liked talking to them and being around them. weâd laugh in our corner of the group at lunch together. they had free period my library aide period and come see me while i put books away, trying not to be too loud to make our librarian send them out for the remainder of the class. but it never got anywhere besides texting constantly and literally parking next to each other and waiting for the other to arrive (the feeling is what i can imagine getting your own drawer at s/o house, for my older viewers out there).they moved to college and thats where it ended.Â
**** i met through a friend, at an outing we were invited separately to, but we all had the same 1 class together. keep in mind, theres 5 of us total, thats a chunk of desks. all brought together by one tiny person who to this day, i love. thats a story for another time. one time together and ive been best friends ever since. we were sort of into each other in the beginning, i have screenshots of texts ive received from them, the first time i felt like someone really noticed me. they invited me over and things but i never went. too scared. always too scared.Â
i read over old texts and im a little embarrassed. why the fuck was i like that holy fuck man so cringe and desperate im so glad that it took me almost fucking dying to realize that i am more than some girl that is here to please and get a boyfriend, im cool as fuck!!!! i love to read!!!!! and make little crafts!!!!! and laze around and watch movies for an entire day. nothing serves me more than being the person i want to be. im doing to dress how i want to dress!!!!!! i am going to do whatever the fuck i want because it is whatever the fuck it is and i no longer desire to dwell on the past for longer than a minute!!!!! whats happen has happened and now im moving on! if it hasnt mattered organically since, then it doesnt deserve to be thought about again!Â
i deserve to be loved out and proud and yelling it at the world and on top of buildings and on billboards, and on a sign pulled by an airplane, a town crier maybe ever millions of fliers made for every tree in the park i dont care but i deserve it!!!!! someone should woe me and make me feel special and make the effort. i should not have to beg for someone to talk to me.Â
i deserve some effort...right?
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Superposition
a deancas college roommate au :)
Chapter 8 is up on AO3! Chapter-by-chapter masterlist here.Â
CW: mentions of verbal abuse, homophobia, alcoholism, jail time. instances of smoking.Â
some notes: I usually go through and italicize as necessary when Iâm posting on tumblr because it doesnât copy over from my og text, but this chapter is like 6200 words and iâm just not gonna do that. recommend reading on AO3 for the best experience!!
An Exercise in Futility
Three Years Earlier
Castiel was convinced that his life was one massive, cosmic joke.
Heâd been considering the possibility for some time. Being the gay son of a homophobic pastor does that to a person. When he discovered, sometime around the age of twelve, that the girls in his Sunday school class were far less interesting than the boys, he could practically feel God laughing at him. Then there was high school, where the religious prattling was replaced by what felt like endless torment at the hands of his peers.Â
He felt like college was quickly becoming the third punchline.
Not that things were bad. Things were good, actually, better than theyâd been in years. He was learning about things he cared about. He passed his midterms with flying colors. He even had friends. He spent a weekend watching all of the Lord of the Rings with Charlie. He had switched seats in accounting to sit next to Meg.
And, of course, there was Dean. Dean, who dragged Cas to a football game and didnât drink a sip of alcohol the whole time in solidarity; Dean, who, after Tombstone, insisted on movie night every Tuesday; Dean, who, demanded that Cas print out a copy of one of his short stories and sign it (âWhen youâre a famous douchebag, this is gonna be worth so much moneyâ).
It seemed that, on all fronts, Castiel had finally capitalized on the collegiate promise of a second chance.Â
But by his own estimation, he was doomed.
Because sometimes, his palms started sweating when Dean stood too close. Sometimes, his heartbeat skipped when Dean threw an arm across Casâs shoulders. Sometimes, Cas woke up from a dream so vivid, he was disappointed to find himself alone in his bunk bed.
He could see how easy it would be to fall in love with Dean Winchester, what with the blond hair and green eyes, bright smiles and southern lilt, funny jokes and considerate actions. The prospect was utterly terrifying, and Castiel was doing everything in his power to stop dwelling on it.
Heâd been down the âfalling in love with your straight best friendâ road before. AP biology class brought Cas a lab partner in Ben Wright. Soccer team captain, A-student, all around nice guy. Maybe Ben didnât do anything to stop the constant verbal torment, but he never took part in it. At first, being around him was exhilarating. Sharing looks, catching smiles, trading inside jokes; Cas was intoxicated. He was so high on first love that he made the mistake of confiding in Bartholomew. Cas had always considered him to be a role model, friend and brother at the same time. But that night, when Cas came out, Bartholomew looked at him like one might look at spoiled food. Heâd agreed not to tell their father, on the condition that Cas never speak about the matter again, that he figure out some way to âcleanse himself.â They hadnât spoken since that night.
And so the feelings that once propelled Castiel to school with anticipation suddenly made him dread it. Not only did baring his soul to a brother get him a one-way ticket to estrangement, but Ben started dating someone else, a girl from his English class. Now every shared look was painful, smiles were false, inside jokes stopped being funny.
It was somehow worse, knowing Ben could never feel the same way. It certainly didnât help the feelings of guilt and shame brought by his family.
Cas would do anything not to feel that way again.Â
He started by insisting that Dean invite Benny and Charlie to more of their nightly dinners. And while he honestly liked the both of them, he would be lying if he didnât admit that their presence was, first and foremost, a distraction from Dean. He took up running again, as a way to get himself out of the dorm when Dean decided to stay in. He spent more time studying with Meg.
Meg was shockingly easy to befriend. She wasnât nice â Cas had watched in shock when, once, she dumped a hot coffee on a skateboarder who had knocked her down on accident â but she never said a mean thing to Castiel. She was like him: a black sheep, the child everyone wished they could forget. Only, where Cas had become an agnostic and gone to college, Meg had become a Satanist and gone to jail for arson.
But this was her new leaf, she told him. Maybe it didnât matter why someone needed a second chance, only that they were willing to take one.
They had been working for an hour when she threw her pen at his head and said, âCas, you should come with me to Sig Epâs Halloween party tomorrow. Be my date.â
Cas took a moment to process the meaning of party + date + with Meg. âUh, I donât â well, um, parties arenât really ââ
She raised an eyebrow at him. âYouâre allowed to say no, hun.â
Cas panicked. Meg was looking at him expectantly, her resigned smile making it clear she was prepared for rejection.
âWell, I⊠Itâs not because of you â youâre very beautiful, and smart. Actually, youâre one of the most wonderful people Iâve met here.â She grinned at that. âItâs just, I donât really⊠Go on dates. With girls.â
She studied him a moment before understanding lit up her face. âOh.â
Castiel fidgeted with his pencil, refusing to meet her eyes. Heâd only ever done this once, and it hadnât gone well. But he liked having a friend, and more than that, he liked having Meg as a friend. He didnât want her to think he wasnât interested because of any fault of her own.
âCas,â she said. When he didnât respond, she poked him in the arm. âCastiel.â He raised his eyes. âItâs cool. Itâs not like you can just choose to like girls when a pretty one asks you on a date.â
âI⊠Understand, if you would rather not be friends,â Cas said, cautiously.
âWhat?â Megâs eyes widened. âWhat are you talking about? Why would I not want to be friends?â She laughed a little. âThat would be super ironic, considering I told you I went to juvie and you didnât bat an eye.â
âBecause Iâm gay,â Cas said quietly, looking down again.
Meg grabbed both his hands. âCas, hun, thereâs nothing wrong with being gay.â
He looked up again, eyes wide. âWhat? I mean, I know that, I just⊠Not everyone does.â
Meg smiled sadly at him and gripped his hands a little tighter. âWell, I do. No biggie. Weâre going to be iconic together, you and I. Sexiest gay-straight alliance of all time.â
Cas smiled weakly, relief flooding his entire body. âThank you, Meg. Iâm sorry, I didnât intend to make any judgements on your character. Itâs just⊠This,â he motioned at the air between them, âhas never gone well for me.â
Meg shook her head. âThatâs a shame,â she said. âI havenât known you that long. But I think I can tell that you â all the parts of you â are awesome.â
âYou can still come to the party,â she added after a moment.
Cas shook his head, capping and uncapping his pen repeatedly. âParties⊠Theyâre not really my scene.â
âAll right. You know who to call if you change your mind.â
                 On Halloween, Castiel returned from his nightly run to find Dean pulling on a flannel. He checked his watch â he had barely made it. 6:57 pm.
âRight on time,â Dean said. âI was about to leave without you.â
âI would have never forgiven you if you did,â Cas joked. Then, âAre Charlie and Benny coming?â
âNah, theyâre both busy tonight. Halloween parties, you know.â
âOh.â Castiel took a large sip of his water. âYouâre not attending a Halloween party?â
Dean shrugged. âWasnât really feeling it tonight. Plus, I have a feeling youâve never seen The Exorcist?â When Cas shook his head, Dean rubbed his hands together. âOh man, we are totally watching it tonight. Unless youâre busy,â he added, raising his eyebrows at Cas.
âIâm not,â Cas replied. Dean knew this already, of course, otherwise Cas might have made something up. The waters in which he tread got more dangerous each day. He couldnât escape the warm feeling flooding his chest at the idea of Dean ditching the parties for a movie night.
It was precisely that feeling that caused him to hurriedly ask, âWould you mind if I invited Meg to dinner?â
âWho?â Dean asked, lacing up his boots.
âMeg Masters. Sheâs the friend from accounting that I told you about.â
âAh,â Dean said. âRight. What, just me isnât good enough anymore?â Cas thought he was joking, but it seemed forced.
âDean ââ
âIâm kidding, man,â Dean said with a short laugh. âSure, she can come.â
Castiel hurriedly splashed his face with cold water and shed his sweaty t-shirt in favor of a hoodie. Dean feigned a sniff in his direction and made a face, to which Cas replied with an eye-roll. As they left their dorm, Cas sent a text to Meg.
CN (7:02 pm)
Would you like to get dinner with Dean and me?
CN (7:02 pm)
Unless youâre already at your party, in which case, be safe.
MM (7:03 pm)
Party not til later. hot roommate dean?
CN (7:04 pm)
...Is that a yes?
MM (7:04 pm)
Yes please ;) shocker dining?
CN (7:05 pm)
Yes. Weâll meet you there.
Dean grabbed a burger and an inordinate amount of fries while Castiel loaded his plate with spaghetti and a salad. Meg walked into the dining room just after he and Dean sat down, and Cas waved her over.
âMeg,â he said, offering her the seat next to his, âthis is Dean Winchester. Dean, this is Meg Masters.â Dean smiled at her with a mouthful of french fries. Cas dropped his head in exasperation.
âPleasure,â Meg said with a half-cocked smile. âIâve heard a lot about you.â
Dean shrugged. âI am pretty awesome. Canât say the same about you, though.â
Cas went bright red. He shot Dean a glare, then turned to Meg. âHeâs joking ââ
Megâs grin only widened, and she giggled. âItâs all right, Cas, Iâm not very interesting.â She raised an eyebrow at him. He became extremely intent upon eating his dinner.
Dean stared at her for a moment, chewing a bite of burger. âSo,â he said, leaning back in his chair. âYou know Cas from accounting?â
âThatâs right,â Meg said brightly.
âSo heâs your tutor or somethinâ?â
Cas interjected. âActually, Meg is far more capable than I am. She essentially taught me everything about liabilities.â
âAdorable,â Dean grumbled.
âIsnât it?â Meg asked sweetly. âAnd youâre his roommate.â
âYep.â
âLucky you.â She gave him a wink. Dean choked on his diet Coke, and Castiel prayed to whomever was listening that he might cease to exist.
âMeg,â he said, giving her a pointed look, âdid you finish the homework?â
She pulled her eyes away from Dean. âYeah, I did.â She dropped her voice. âDid you want to go over it? At my place?â She winked at Cas, who stared at her in horror. Why was she acting like this? âYou know,â Meg continued, âWe can do other things too. Besides accounting.â
Dean cleared his throat loudly. âIâm gonna go grab some more fries. Do yâall want anything?âÂ
Cas and Meg shook their heads. When Dean had left the table, Cas gave Meg a death stare.
âWhatâs wrong with you?â He hissed. âI thought we covered this ââ
âYes, Cas, hun, I know youâre extraordinarily gay,â Meg said with an eyeroll. âIâm not actually interested. Iâm just conducting an experiment.âÂ
Cas narrowed his eyes. âWhat âexperimentâââ
He closed his mouth abruptly and leaned away from Meg when he saw Dean returning from the buffet line. He returned to his seat, looking between Cas and Meg suspiciously. Cas downed his water in one swift action.
âSo, Dean,â Meg said after taking a bite of her pizza. âI hear youâre educating our friend here on pop culture.â
Dean didnât bother to look up at her while he swirled a fry in ketchup. âGuess so.âÂ
Cas cleared his throat to interject. This direction of conversation was much better. âMeg asked what my favorite movie was,â he explained to Dean, who still hadnât looked up from his plate. âI told her about how much I liked Back to the Future when we watched it last week.âÂ
Dean gave him a small smile. âYeah, that movieâs frigginâ awesome.â
Cas turned to Meg. âWeâre watching The Exorcist tonight.âÂ
Meg gasped dramatically. âSo thatâs why you blew off our date?â
Dean sputtered into his drink. âDate?â He said through a cough.
Cas looked helplessly at Meg, who unhelpfully smiled back. He was going to have words with her after this.Â
âI asked him to come to the SigEp party, but he said he was busy,â Meg said, feigning a pout. âBut I get it, parties arenât really Casâs thing, anyway.â
Deanâs eyes flickered quickly between Cas and Meg. âAll right, am I missing something?â He asked. His leg was bouncing against the table leg, hard enough that Casâs plate was vibrating.Â
Cas looked at him, panicked, and stuttered out, âI donât ââ
âLike what?â Meg asked, sipping on her water.
âYou his girlfriend or somethinâ?â
This question delighted Meg. âWhy donât you ask him?â
Dean turned to Cas with an exasperated look. âWell?â He prodded.
Cas was sure he was about three different shades of red at this point. âWhat â I â no,â he sputtered.
Dean seemed to relax a little. Meg was still grinning like a madman. âThere you go,â she said.
Castiel could not formulate a single coherent thought. He was confused as to how they even ended up here. The silence between the three of them was thick and awkward. Meg paid it no mind, just popped a strawberry in her mouth and gave Dean a sickly sweet smile. Dean excused himself to use the restroom, hitting his leg on the table and nearly tripping over his chair. Once he had left, Meg turned to Cas, her eyes sparkling.
âYou are so in,â she said.
âWhat the hell was that?â He asked her. âWhat just happened?â
âHe thinks Iâm into you,â she explained. She took a bite of her pizza, then continued, âAnd he thinks you might be into me. And he hates that.â
âThatâs ridiculous,â Cas scoffed.
Meg laughed, throwing her head back. When Cas fixed her with a glare, her eyes widened. âYou really donât see it?â
Cas pinched the bridge of his nose. âThereâs nothing to âseeâ. I already told you.â
âYeah, right. Whatever, youâll thank me later.â
âFor creating what is perhaps the most awkward dinner Iâve ever had in my life?â
She waved him off. âDonât be such a baby, it wasnât that bad.â
Cas gave her a look that suggested otherwise. She sighed.
âLook, the way you talk about himâŠâ Meg grabbed Cas's hand when he rolled his eyes. âIâm serious. You like him, and now you know he likes you too.â She sat up proudly. âI just did all the heavy lifting for you.â
âRight,â Cas said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. âObviously, this interaction points to an inevitable romantic encounter. Except, and I think this is important, Dean is not gay.â
Meg raised an eyebrow. âWell, the way he looks at you, heâs not straight either. Plus, he apparently still thinks youâre straight, so you two havenât had that conversation yet. He could be flamingly bisexual and you would never know.â
âThis conversation is exhausting.â Cas felt like he was watching a Disney Channel Original Movie, and Meg was a fifteen-year-old matchmaker.
Meg laughed. âIâm sure youâll survive. By the way, did you actually want to go over the homework this weekend?â
âYes,â he said, relieved at the change in subject.
Dean returned then. âAre yâall done?â He asked, pointing to their plates. Cas and Meg both nodded, offering âthank youâsâ as Dean took their plates to the dish rack. They followed him to the exit, the crisp air sending a chill through Castiel.
âDid you want me to walk back with you, Meg?â Cas offered.
She beamed at him. âYouâre so sweet, but no. Iâm getting an Uber to Sig Ep, anyway.â She dug into her coat pocket and pulled out something small and black. âPlus, if anyone tries anything, theyâll find themselves electrocuted. Just a little bit.â
Cas grinned. Dean raised an eyebrow.
âSee you on Monday, Cas,â Meg said, giving him a hug that lasted just a touch too long. âIt was good to meet you, Dean.â
âYou too,â Dean muttered.
They watched her walk away for a moment. Cas wanted to avoid looking at Dean for as long as humanly possible. He had no idea how he was supposed to explain the previous interaction.
âSo,â Dean said, clearing his throat. âSheâs⊠Nice.â
âShe is,â Castiel agreed earnestly. âDean, Iâm sorry, Meg can be a bitâŠâ He struggled to find an adequate descriptor. âI think she enjoys othersâ discomfort a bit too much, sometimes,â he finished.
Dean let out a short laugh. âYeah. Yeah, I guess so. Itâs not a big deal, man.â
They stood in silence, Dean looking at the ground intently, Cas tugging on the strings of his hoodie. Dean kicked a rock, then sighed. âYou, uh, you ready to head back?â
âYes,â Cas replied.
The walk back to their dorm was quiet. Castiel couldnât tell for sure, but he thought Dean looked bothered. He felt bad â he had honestly expected for Meg and Dean to get along. He had thought them to be similar in their confident and boisterous personalities. Now, he wondered if that was precisely the problem. Too much personality at the same dinner table. He winced internally at his own poor judgement. Meg obviously took no issue with the encounter, but he worried that Dean might hold it against him.
Dean let them into their room, then wrinkled his nose at Cas once more. âDude, seriously, go take a shower. Youâre gross.â
âActually, I enjoy the feeling of my sweat drying all over my skin. I was thinking of going straight to bed like this. Itâs not as if I didnât take a shower because of your constant insistence upon eating meals at the same time every dayâ
Dean made a gagging motion. âHey, we had an appointment, and you were almost late. How is that my fault?â
Cas just rolled his eyes and gathered his things to head to the showers. He let out a muttered, âCrapâ when he realized nearly all of his laundry was dirty. Heâd been busy this week, and running every day tended to render his clothes unwearable after a single use. He made a mental note to do laundry first thing in the morning. He was able to find an old pair of gym shorts, but not a single t-shirt remained in his closet. Cas groaned inwardly. So he would simply have to sit next to Dean for approximately two-and-a-half hours, shirtless. Fantastic.
When he returned from his shower, Cas found Dean cooking two bags of popcorn, the title menu of The Exorcist already on screen. Dean stood up from the microwave when Cas entered, and was halfway into a thumbs-up when he did a double take.
âUh⊠We goinâ shirtless tonight, Baywatch?â He said, tugging at his collar.
Castiel tilted his head. âI donât understand that reference.â
âOf course you donât,â Dean said with a chuckle. âSeriously, though, dude.â
Cas sighed as he sat on their beanbag. âI have a lot of laundry to do tomorrow,â he said by way of an explanation.
Dean didnât respond, but made his way to his own closet. He ruffled through it for a moment before Cas was hit in the face by a t-shirt.
âHere, just wear one of mine,â Dean said. He coughed and crossed his arms over his chest. ââS kinda cold in here, anyway.â
Cas held up the shirt. It was a Led Zeppelin graphic tee, vintage, from their tour in 1977. Cas raised his eyebrows at Dean.
âItâs pretty awesome right?â Cas donned the t-shirt. âSammy got it for me from a Goodwill a couple years ago. Another of my prized possessions.â He looked at Cas with feigned scrutiny. âLooks good on you,â he said.
Cas played with the hem as he said, âThank you.â Dean coughed again and walked back to the microwave to retrieve their popcorn. The air was palpable with awkwardness.
Dean turned out the lights. They settled onto the beanbag, as had become custom in the last few weeks.Â
Not even thirty minutes in, Deanâs phone began to ring. âHey, my brotherâs callinâ, can you pause it?â Dean said.
Cas obliged, and Dean stood as he said, âHey, Sammy, howâs it goinâ?â
Cas sat awkwardly with his hands in his lap, doing his best not to eavesdrop on Deanâs conversation. Though, he supposed if it was private, Dean could have moved to the hallway. Instead, he leaned against the door, twisting the beaded bracelet on his left hand.Â
âHe did what?â Dean suddenly yelled, and Cas jumped. Dean shot him a quick apologetic look. â
âSammy, calm down, itâs okay,â Dean said, and Cas couldnât pretend to not listen anymore. He looked at Dean with a silent question, but Dean was staring hard at the wall, his free hand balled into a fist.Â
âPut him on the phone,â Dean said in a low voice. A pause. âWhat, so now heâs allowed to treat you like shit whenever he wants?â Another pause. A slow exhale from Dean. âNo, youâre right. I donât⊠I wonât make it worse.â Pause. âDo you want me to come down there? Because I will, you know I will.âÂ
Dean was silent for a long moment before asking, âAre you sure?â He sighed at whatever his brother said on the other line. âOkay. Let me know if you need anything, I guess. And Sam? Iâm really fucking sorry. I shouldâve stayed, I donâtâŠâ He trailed off and pinched the bridge of his nose. âNo, I know. Yeah. Okay, Iâll talk to you later. Bye.âÂ
Dean lowered the phone from his ear. He stood silently for a moment, angry gaze directed at the floor. Then, causing Cas to jump once more, he turned and hurled his fist at the door.Â
There was a loud thud upon impact, and then Dean was yelling âFuck! Goddammit!â as he cradled his hand. Cas stood abruptly, but had no idea what to do. He walked toward Dean, cautiously.
Deanâs eyes were closed, and he was heaving deep breaths. Cas put a hand on his shoulder. âDean?â He ventured.
âSorry,â Dean mumbled, still not looking at Cas. âI just â Fuck, that was so stupid,â he said, shaking out his affected hand. âSorry,â he repeated to the wall.Â
âItâs fine,â Cas said, even though he thought it definitely wasnât. âWhat happened?âÂ
Dean just shook his head. Casâs hand remained on his shoulder. He tightened his grip, a little nervous that Dean might shove him off. âDean,â he persisted. âYou can tell me.âÂ
Finally, Dean looked at him, and Cas thought if that level of rage was ever directed at him, he would promptly die. Instead, he raised an eyebrow. âAre you all right?âÂ
âNo,â Dean growled. âI gotta â I donât know, I need to calm down. I donât actually want to break something,â he said, motioning to the door. âIâm gonna go for a smoke.âÂ
Cas dropped his hand and folded his arms across his chest. âIâll go with you.âÂ
âCas ââ Dean started, but Cas silenced him with a look. He grabbed one of Deanâs flannels from his desk chair and threw it at him. Dean caught it with a cross between surprise and irritation. Cas grabbed his own windbreaker and put it on, looking expectantly at Dean.Â
âAre we going?â He asked.Â
Dean looked at him as if he was trying to decide whether arguing was worth it. A sigh confirmed that it wasnât. He silently pulled on his flannel and opened the door, ushering Cas through before exiting himself.Â
They walked in silence, despite the fervor of Casâs concern and curiosity at Deanâs outburst. Deanâs jaw was set, and he took a long, slow breath when they hit the crisp fall air. When they reached the Impala, Cas silently moved to lean on the hood while Dean retrieved his lighter and a cigarette.Â
Dean joined Cas as he took a long draw. He exhaled the smoke upwards, his eyes closed. His face was still turned to the sky when he asked, âThis really doesnât bother you?â
âWhat?â
Dean brandished his cigarette in answer, turning to raise an eyebrow at Cas.Â
Cas shrugged. âItâs not particularly comforting. But, there are worse things.â He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked up thoughtfully. âBesides, youâve been smoking for years. If anyone could convince you to quit, your random college roommate isnât the most likely option.âÂ
Dean gave him a strange look before exhaling another plume of smoke. He coughed a little. âI think you have long passed the line between ârandom roommateâ and ânew best friend.ââ
Cas gave a little chuckle. âThatâs good to hear.â Inside, his world was falling down and rebuilding itself anew. Dean thought of Cas as his best friend. Cas had never known that feeling, to have someone care about him like that. Cas wondered if that could be enough, being Deanâs best friend. Â
He didnât say anything more, though, just let Dean finish his cigarette. After throwing the butt on the pavement and stomping on it, he heaved a sigh.Â
âMy dadâŠâ He started, but paused. âHe, uh, he said some stuff to Sam. My brother.âÂ
Cas nodded, doing his best to keep his face neutral. Talking things through wasnât Deanâs strong suit, and Cas didnât want dramatics to make it more difficult.Â
âWhat did he say?â
Dean shifted and rubbed his hands together. âBunch of bullshit. âItâs your fault your Momâs dead, it should have been you instead of her.ââ Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth. âI mean, he used to say that to me. He gets into these moods when he drinks, says a bunch of shit he doesnât mean.âÂ
Dean shoved himself off the hood and began to pace in front of Cas. âBut I could take it, you know? Sammyâs just a kid. He doesnât need to hear that.âÂ
âYour father says things like this often?â Cas asked, a tinge of horror in his voice.Â
âHe used to. But only to me. Never to Sam.âÂ
Cas took a deep breath, trying to discern how best to proceed. âDean,â he said slowly, âhe shouldnât say those things. Ever. Not to Sam, and not to you.âÂ
âIâm just confused,â Dean said. âAnd pissed. Sam and him are usually okay. I mean, theyâre not buddies or anything, but Dad leaves him alone for the most part.â
âI donât want to overstep,â Cas said, âBut it seems like your father used you as an outlet for misplaced rage. A punching bag, if you will. And now youâre gone, so Sam is the next best thing.âÂ
Dean met Cas'seyes with a horrified look. âGod. I didnât⊠Youâre right. Shit, this is my fault, I canât believe I ââ
âNo, Dean,â Cas growled. He stood and grabbed Dean by both shoulders. âThis is your fatherâs fault. Not yours.â
âBut I left Sam, alone, with him,â Dean said, and Cas could see panic rising in his eyes. âHow could I do that, why ââ Cas interrupted him again. âWhy did you decide to attend college, Dean? Whatâs the real reason?â
âWhat?â Dean gave him an incredulous look. âI donât know.âÂ
Cas tilted his head down, skeptical.Â
Dean let out a long sigh. âOkay, all right. I went because Sam is smart, and he needs to go. But we donât have any money. So I figured if I came and got a degree or some shit, I could make enough to throw him some cash while he goes to school. Get some summer internships and save up for his college fund. Heâd probably still have to take out loans and stuff, but if I got a good job, I could help him pay them off.âÂ
Cas wasnât sure what answer he had expected, but it wasnât that one. He felt his heart break for the man standing in front of him, who did everything he could and more for the people he cared about and never felt like it was enough.Â
âWould Sam ever hold that against you?â When Dean didnât respond, Cas continued. âI know I wouldnât. I have four older siblings, and not a single one of them has ever done something like that for me.â
âButââ
âYouâre making yourself miserable over something that isnât your fault,â Cas said. âDid you have anyone protecting you when your father went on a tirade?âÂ
âNo, butââ
âIs Sam incapable of handling himself?â
âNo, but Casââ
âHeâll be alright, Dean,â Cas insisted. âYou canât live your whole life as his shield. Youâll break yourself trying.âÂ
Dean was silent, and wouldnât meet Cas's eyes. Cas dropped his hands and leaned back against the Impala. âDid you ever think that Sam might have wanted you to go to school simply so you could get yourself out? Did you ever think that Sam hates the way your father treated you as much as you hate what he did to Sam tonight?âÂ
Dean pursed his lips together, but his jaw relaxed slightly. Finally, he muttered, âI guess I never thought about it like that.âÂ
Cas felt relief wash over him. Heâd never seen Dean like this â angry and frantic. Cas wondered if Dean always did this, shouldered the blame for every bad thing his brother had to endure. The thought made his chest hurt.Â
Deanâs hands were hanging limply at his side. He looked exhausted. Against his better judgement, Cas grabbed Dean by the forearm and pulled him into a hug. Dean was still for a moment, but then sighed and rested his head on Cas's shoulder.Â
âSorry, man,â he said. âI didnât mean to act like that, punching things and shit. I just get so angry, and I donât know what to do with it.âÂ
Cas was trying very hard to form a coherent thought. âThereâs no need for apologies. I understand.âÂ
A chuckle escaped Deanâs lips. âYou must think Iâm a complete nutjob, huh?âÂ
Cas tilted his head in consideration. Deanâs hair tickled his cheek. âNo. I think your father spent years verbally abusing you, and youâre doing your best in spite of that.âÂ
Dean broke the hug abruptly. The sudden space between them felt criminal. âI mean, I donât know if itâs abuseâŠâ He started, but, at Cas's look, he trailed off. Dean rubbed the back of his neck. âThanks, Cas,â he said quietly. âHonestly, dude, I donât know what I would have done without you.âÂ
Cas's cheeks warmed, and he shrugged. âYou would have done the same for me.âÂ
Dean gave him a small smile. Casâs heart nearly broke with relief. âIâm beat,â he said. âBed?âÂ
Cas nodded eagerly. âBed.âÂ
When they reached the stairs, Dean broke the heavy silence.
âSoâŠâ He began. There was a false brightness in his voice; he was obviously searching for levity. âYou hanging out with your girlfriend tomorrow?âÂ
âIf youâre referring to Meg, sheâs still not my girlfriend,â Cas replied vacantly. âAnd yes.â He suddenly felt exhausted. First the mortifying dinner with Meg, then the heavy conversation with Dean. He hardly had it in him to field jokes about Meg being his girlfriend.
âSheâs not your girlfriend yet,â Dean amended, giving Cas a smirk that didnât meet his eyes.Â
And what was Cas supposed to say to that? Meg was funny and smart and beautiful. She and Cas studied together on the regular. There was absolutely no reason he shouldnât be interested in Meg from Deanâs perspective.Â
Of course, if Dean knew he was gayâŠÂ
Cas didnât know if he could face the consequences of coming out to Dean. Would he be upset that Cas hadnât told him earlier? Would he be uncomfortable with a gay man as his roommate? As his friend? Cas may have expanded his social circle, but he still couldnât bear to lose Dean.Â
But, then again, Dean had defended him once already, without knowing whether or not he was gay. Heâd sounded indifferent to the possibility then. And just tonight, heâd called Cas his best friend. Dean cared more deeply for his friends and family than anyone Cas had ever met. Cas was in that group. Dean wouldnât shove him out of it because of who he loved.
Right?
As they reached the entrance to their hall, Dean poked Cas in the shoulder. âHey, Earth to Major Tom,â he said. âYou okay over there?âÂ
Cas realized he hadnât said a word since they started their ascent up the stairs. He sighed heavily.
Perhaps this was as good a time as any.Â
âDean,â he said, but closed his mouth. He should just say it. He had nothing to worry about. This wasnât Bartholomew. He knew that, but the words remained stuck in his throat.
âWhat?â Dean said, eyebrows raised. âCas,â he prodded, waving a hand in front of Casâs face.Â
âIâm notâŠâ Cas swallowed. âI will never date Meg,â he finished, with a pointed look.Â
Dean side-eyed him as they walked to their door. âWhat, sheâs not your type?âÂ
Cas gave him a lopsided smile. âYou could say that.âÂ
âI dunno, man, maybe you should reconsider, you two are pretty adorable, in a gross way ââ
âDean.â Cas was about to rip his hair out. He wasnât taking the hint. âSheâs not my type. Sheâs a girl.â
Realization dawned on Deanâs face. âOh,â he said.
âI apologize for not telling you sooner,â Cas said, bracing for the worst. âIf that makes you uncomfortable, I understand ââ
âWhat?â Dean practically shouted. At Casâs look of surprise, he lowered his voice. âNo, Cas, are you kidding? I thought I told you, after all that shit with Cole. Itâs not a big deal.â
âKnowing your roommate might possibly be gay and knowing he is, indeed, gay are two very different things.â
Dean looked at Cas like he had just made the worst joke in the world. âIâm not gonna, like, try to move out.â As they approached their room, Cas stared resolutely ahead, walking with purpose. But Dean jumped out in front of him, a hand on Casâs chest to stop him in his tracks.Â
âDude, itâs gonna take more than that to get rid of me. I lost my shit and punched a door, like, an hour ago, and you barely even blinked.â Dean crossed his arms over his chest.
Cas met Deanâs eyes and found unparalleled sincerity.
âI donât⊠Youâre not the least bit upset?â Cas asked, slightly incredulous.Â
Dean shrugged. âYouâre my best friend, Cas,â he said as he straightened. âNothingâs gonna change that.â He pulled on his bracelet. âI do feel bad though, for making you feel like you couldnât tell me. Not that you had to, or anything,â he added in a rush. Â
Cas shook his head vigorously. âIt has nothing to do with you, Dean. Iâm⊠Iâm new at this,â Cas explained. âThe first time, with Bartholomew⊠I believe he was, as you would say, a dick about it.âÂ
Deanâs eyes turned stormy. âBastard,â he said. âIâm sorry, Cas. You shouldnât have had to deal with that.âÂ
Cas nodded. âYouâre right. It was rather unfortunate. I havenât spoken to him since the night I told him I was gay.âÂ
Dean moved back to Casâs side and slung an arm around his shoulders. âHis loss,â he said. âYouâre frigginâ awesome, dude.âÂ
Cas smiled. Dean patted him on the back and let the two of them into their room.Â
Cas brushed his teeth and climbed into bed. Dean returned minutes later from a shower, and he flipped off the lights as he made his way to his own bunk.Â
Cas pulled off Deanâs shirt and threw it across the room. Deanâs head caught it, and he yelped.
âThank you for the loan,â Cas said, smiling.Â
An odd expression crossed Deanâs face before he threw the Zeppelin shirt back to Cas. âKeep it,â he said. When Cas gave him a confused look, he put a hand on the back of his neck. âI meant what I said. Looks good on you.âÂ
---------
tagging @nguyenxtrang :)))
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Even Heroes Have the Right to Dream: Chapter 17
Despite the overwhelming odds, tomorrow came.
First, Previous. Ao3.
And we come to the final chapter. Thank you all so much for reading! It was a delight to be able to share this story with you. Be well, and stay safe <3
Story under read-more.
âHonestly, Iâm just relieved that you and Jon actually realized youâre in love with each other. Iâve been hanging out with Tamias recently and, God.â
Marinette rolls her eyes at her friend. âIt wasnât like that. Itâs not like I was secretly pining since I met him. Or, not-so-secretly.â She snorts good-naturedly, thinking of the boys.
Louise loudly guffaws. âMarinette, you two were so transparent from the moment we met you. Thereâs no way you werenât already in love with him then.â
âI wasnât! I loved him, yeah, but not like that.â Marinette pouts a little. âJust because I fell in love with him later doesnât mean we were always in love. We really were just friends. Our pining lasted like, two days.â
Kasey smirks mischievously. âI donât know why youâre trying so hard to defend it when youâre literally dating him now, but go off, I guess. You were married from the moment you moved in together. I bet.â
âWeâre good roommates.â Marinette rolls her eyes. âAnd we had our share of problems. And I wasnât in love back then. When we met, I was still dating Adrien, you know, and it took a long time to get over him. No, I fell in love with Jon when he brought me out into a starlit field on Thanksgiving and made me a heartfelt speech about how much I mean to him. I mean, Iâm not made of stone! Who wouldnât fall in love when he does that?â
Kasey groans loudly. âThatâs so freaking cute, oh my god. I hate that I know that Jon is exactly the kind of person who would do that.â
Louise giggles even more, covering her mouth with her hand. âI hate that he totally did that without even thinking about it being romantic. I bet he fell in love with you at the same time, didnât he?â
Marinette is loath to admit it, but⊠âYes. Thatâs exactly how it happened.â
The other girls cackle at the thought and, wiping a tear from her eye, Kasey says, âNow, if only David and Tamias could have a starlit romp through a field.â
âHeavens no.â Marinette says immediately. âDavid and fields? We donât want to start wildfires.â
âWhat is with him and fire, anyway?ïżœïżœ Louise asks. âHeâs not even a pyrotechnic; things just happen.â
âWe donât question it.â Marinette answers. âWe just try to minimize the damage.â
âProbably smart.â Kasey says. âHeâs got an internship this semester, right? I hope everything catching fire around him doesnât affect that too bad.â
âSeems to be going alright so far, though Jon would know better than me.â Marinette hums. She sits back, thinking about Davidâs internship and the seemingly unanimous worry about what comes after college. Itâs the last semester for most of them. That thought is still surreal to Marinette. It feels like just yesterday she packed her bags for her very first trip to American soil. âCan you guys believe weâre going to graduate?â
Both girls groan loudly. âItâs so exciting!â Kasey says, though her voice is less enthused than her words. âBut also, Iâm terrified.â
Louise nods sagely. âI feel like I havenât learned nearly enough to have a degree!â
Marinette giggles. âAre you going for a Masterâs, then?â
Louise nods. âIf I can afford it. Iâm still budgeting, but my job right now is pretty good, so it should be fine. What about you?â
âMaybe.â Marinette says. âHonestly, I havenât given much thought to what happens after graduation. Iâll have to talk to Jon about what his plans are, but⊠yeah, Iâll probably work on my Masterâs. Depending on what we decide, I might do that somewhere else, though. I donât know if Jon wants to go back to Metropolis, or what.â
Kasey coos. âYouâd follow him to Metropolis?â
Marinette shrugs. âWhy not? Metropolis may not be Paris or New York, but theyâve still got a flourishing fashion scene. Itâs not like Iâm just following my boyfriend â I can see a future in my career there, too, so right now, since I donât have it all figured out yet, itâll work just as well as staying here. Or even going back to Paris. Iâm not sacrificing anything doing that, and frankly I think itâd be cool to live in Metropolis, even if itâs just for a while. You know?â
âI totally understand.â Kasey nods eagerly.
Louise giggles. âPlus, if Jon is planning on a writing job, heâll have a much harder time in Paris trying to do that in French.â
âHis French is actually pretty good!â Marinette says in his defense. âIâve been practicing with him, and heâs been at it for more than a year now, so heâs not that bad. Youâre right, though. He hasnât had a firm idea for what kind of job he wants, not that heâs told me, anyway, so if heâs planning on just joining the reporting scene like his parents, even just as a temporary job, itâll be much more difficult for him in Paris. At least, more difficult than designing will be for me in America.â Marinette hums, holding a hand to her chin. âSomething else to consider, I guess.â
âSounds like you and he need to talk about it.â Kasey says. âYouâre running out of time, fast.â
âUgh, donât remind me.â Marinette signs. âWhat about you, though? Any plans for a graduate degree?â
Kasey flushes a little and shakes her head. âN-no. Iâm still just worried about finding a job.â
Louise pats her back gently. âEasily the worst part.â She says. âThe job search sucks. But youâll get through it!â
Marinette groans in agreement. I need to remember to thank Uncle Jagged again. She thinks. Even with her name tied to his giving her massive opportunity within the industry, looking for jobs still sucks. Sheâs so fortunate to have consistent (celebrity, no less) clients, so sheâs sitting pretty well working on commission. But she does want a more stable income just for future-proofing. She even has the luxury of, what sheâs thinking of doing, trying to start her own label right out of the gate instead of working for a brand first.
It probably would have been smarter to keep her identity secret until she set that all up and use Jaggedâs announcement to prop up her new label, but⊠thatâs hindsight, Marinette supposes. Jagged Stone is still big enough that sheâll turn heads when she does announce it regardless.
Either way, sheâs keeping her options open for now. But sheâs so lucky. The only reason sheâs even looking for jobs is the option and experience â she doesnât need it. Marinette tries her best to appreciate that.
She definitely needs to talk with Jon, though. Which she will do, if tests donât murder her first.
To be fair, midterms arenât all bad. Marinette has a good groove going â she nails it down during their third year so this is just slight alterations here and there to adjust for this semesterâs schedule. Still, she can see that diploma and she sure as hell is not going to slack off and let herself lose it now.
Plus, they have a whole semester. Yes, they need to plan and prepare, but itâs not that urgent just yet. Despite how graduation seems to loom over them, itâs still months away. It makes it a little too easy to put the talk out of her mind and focus only on the more immediately approaching tests.
That said, Marinette knows itâs irresponsible to keep putting it off. Marinette is reminded of it regularly when Tikki brings it up during their chats. Wayzz reminds her often, too, but if Tikki, who only gets out of the Miracle Box much more sparingly these days, uses her valuable time with Marinette to worry over it, it must be worse than Marinette thinks.
Then again, it is Tikki, so maybe not. Tikkiâs a chronic worrier, after all.
But Marinette ends up surprised when itâs Jon that brings the subject up. Theyâre on their sofa, playing a video game together, when Jon says suddenly, âI keep meaning to ask, whatâre you planning to do after graduation?â Marinette blinks up at him for a moment, because despite the question being on her mind, itâs still unexpected now. âI mean,â Jon chuckles awkwardly, âI know youâre already making a living off designing, so maybe nothing much will change there? But, uh⊠are you going to move back to Paris?â
Marinette smiles gently. âI was actually meaning to ask you that.â She sighs. âSomeday after graduation Iâm going to start a label. I need to get people and get all the prep work done for that, and Iâm probably not going to work too hard on starting that until graduation, so thatâs a while off, and I was thinking of working on a Masterâs degree, but⊠as for where, I was going to ask you. I can make my label anywhere, and I can live off commission until I get that sorted, but since I donât know what kind of job youâre looking for, I was thinking youâd probably decide where we go.â
Jon flushes red. âYou were? I- oh. I thought since you had everything all figured out already, Iâd just go where you do and find a job there.â
Marinette flushes as well at him saying so directly that he plans to follow her wherever she decides to go. Itâs something they both already understand, of course, but they rarely voice that particular thought. Have we ever said that aloud? That theyâll move to an entirely new city just to be with the other? When Marinette thinks too hard about it, it seems more grand a gesture than it feels. Really, itâs more like⊠Jonâs home, so if heâs in Metropolis, thatâs home, too. Itâs not a big deal. Yet, when he says the same thing, it feels so major. âOh.â She says. âWell, what kind of job were you thinking of?â
Jon shrugs. âI donât know, honestly. I mean, dream job, you know what would be really cool?â Jon perks up cutely and grins at the thought. âWorking in a museum. Itâd be so cool just to be surrounded by all the artifacts all the time. Do research, and educate people⊠I donât know. I havenât thought too much about it, but that sounds neat, doesnât it?â
âYouâre volunteering at a museum, arenât you?â Marinette asks.
Jon grins. âYeah, for class. Thatâs what made me think of it! Itâs actually a lot of fun. Though, in the meantime, I do still like writing. Itâll probably be easier for me to get a job at a newspaper or something because of my parents. Thatâs an option, too.â
Marinette hums. âWell, if youâre going to write, you probably donât want to do that in French.â
Jon grimaces. âI didnât even think about that.â
Marinette just giggles. âSo thatâs a reason to stay in America, I guess.â
âIf you want to go home, you shouldnât let me stop you. I can figure something out.â Jon says earnestly. âIâm fine living in Paris, I promise. My French isnât that bad anymore, right?â
Marinette shakes her head fondly. âOf course not. Youâre fluent enough to work there if you have to, and youâll only get better if you do, but do you have a preference?â She asks. âDo you want to go back to Metropolis, or to Paris, or somewhere else?â
Jon makes a face and shrugs. âHonestly? Not really. So long as Iâm with you, Iâll be fine.â
âI didnât ask if youâd be fine.â Marinette rolls her eyes. âI know youâll be fine. I asked if you have a preference.â
Jon blushes again and shakes his head. âNo, I donât.â He says firmly. âI promise. I can see myself living⊠well, maybe not anywhere, but any of our three cities.â He leans in close to her touching her nose with his as he grins at her. âOr on a farm.â
Marinette kisses him quickly before pushing him away, laughing at his stunned expression. Apparently, whatever he expected from teasing her with that farm comment wasnât that. âAs beautiful as the farm is, I think I would prefer living in a city, if itâs all the same to you.â
Jon just shrugs, smiling goofily all the while. âWorks for me. Maybe we can save the farm for retirement.â
Thereâs a thought. Since she was little, Marinette imagined so many different futures for herself. From childhood to old age. But she can truly, honestly say that not one of those daydreams involves spending her old age with her goofball husband in the American countryside. Then again, none of them involve living anywhere but Paris; she always assumed that sheâll spend her whole life there.
But thinking about it, there is an idyllic appeal to the thought. Ha, maybe. She shakes her head. More than the thought of some pastoral life on a farm, itâs the thought of Jon planning to retire together with her that brings heat to Marinetteâs cheeks.
She has a more immediate future to think about, though. âWhat do you think about staying in New York?â She asks. âWeâve both got friends here, even considering the ones that are probably going to move away after graduation. Maybe itâs the safe option, but Iâve already dropped my life to move to a new city once already.â
Jon snickers playfully. âYou mean you got it all out of your system? No desire at all to move to China next?â
âDonât tempt me.â Marinette giggles.
âNew York sounds great, though.â Jon says, more seriously. âI like it here.â
âMe too. And it doesnât have to be permanent. If we decide we want to move somewhere else later down the line, we can always still do that. But at least we know what weâll do right out of university.â
Jon chuckles to himself. âJust know that Iâm working on Kryptonian after I get comfortable with French. If you drag us to China, youâre going to be the one doing the talking.â
Marinette smacks his arm. âIâm not going to drag you to China.â She says. ââŠFor more than a visit, anyway. I do have family there, you know. But I want in on Kryptonian lessons. That sounds like a lot of fun. You going to have your Aunt Kara teach you?â
âThatâs the plan.â Jon says âThereâs some old educational stuff in the Fortress of Solitude that weâre going to use as reference, but sheâll be in charge since she already knows it. Iâll tell her youâll be joining us when we do start that. Itâll be nice to have you to talk with, too, like we do with French. Otherwise, Iâll pretty much never use it.â
âI canât wait.â Marinette smiles at him. âThat should be exciting.â
âDefinitely.â
The conversation lulls, and Marinette is happy. They finally have that conversation about where theyâre going after graduation, so thatâs a weight off her shoulders, and sheâs happy regardless just to lean into Jonâs side and play video games quietly with him.
âIs it weird,â Jon says suddenly, after a while, âthat I think of New York as home? At least as much as the farm or Metropolis. Maybe more.â
Marinette shrugs. âThis is our fourth year here. Probably not. Itâs home for me, too, either way.â
Jon hums, a deep vibration in his chest that Marinette can feel from where she lays against him. âIâm glad weâre staying. I didnât even realize until now, and maybe itâs silly, but⊠New York feels like our place. If that makes any sort of sense. Paris and Metropolis are Ladybug and Superboyâs places, but New York is Marinette and Jon.â He hums a little more and nuzzles into Marinetteâs hair. âI like Marinette and Jon.â
Marinette chuckles, feeling her cheeks flush even as she adjusts to press even closer to him. âI think I get what you mean. New York is where our new life is. Sort of like we left our hero lives behind in our old cities. If we went back, itâd be a new life in an old home. Wouldnât be bad, and we could make our home there if we want to, butâŠâ
âBut itâs not the same.â Jon agrees. âWeâre already home. We donât need to move.â
âYeah. I feel the same way.â She looks up at him. âI love you, Jon.â
âI love you, too.â He kisses her tenderly, with that soft, gentle crescent of a smile that says so much more in so much less than his brightest, most beaming of smiles.
âJon.â Marinette says suddenly, jumping up from her seat. âJon, oh my god.â
Jon perks up, shifting quickly into alert mode from the tone of her voice. âWhat? What is it?â
Marinette takes another moment to consider the thought that occurs to her, to verify it, and grabs his shirt. âNothing. Nothing is happening. No big revelation, no genetically engineered siblings, no catty high-school drama, no tragedy â dude our last semester is normal!â Marinette puts a hand to her head, still reeling from the thought. âSo thatâs what it feels like.â
Jon releases a breathy laugh. âDonât jinx it! Besides, I wouldnât say nothing happened. Mercury passed in front of the sun. The astronomy professor at my school let me look through her telescope. It was pretty cool.â
âJon, you absolute dweeb, you know thatâs not what I mean.â
Jon starts cackling. âWereâd you even learn the word dweeb? I mean, youâre right, but who says that anymore?â
âTelevision.â Marinette says seriously. âBut Iâm serious here!â
âMe too.â Jon says. He wraps her up in his arms comfortably, chuckling all the while. âItâs not really the first time, is it? I mean, we donât have that bad of a track record, all things considered.â
Marinette thinks about it more, trying to piece the timeline back together. âHuh, I guess so. Itâs like good, bad, then bad â but just for me, I think? â then bad at the start but good for most of it, then good, then Sam, then whatever the hell last semester was. Is that a pattern? Second semesters have drama? Oh, god, is the drama just waiting for graduation?!â
âMarinette, I love you,â Jonâs voice is cool, grounded, sturdy, âbut do not catastrophize right now. The last thing we need is bad vibes on our last semester. Itâs our last semester! Weâve got it figured out! So, if some stupid call to action comes knocking at our door between now and graduation, what do we do?â
âTell it to shut up, because weâve got to study.â Marinette says with a small smile, pressing her head to Jonâs. âYouâre right. Letâs keep this going.â
Jon chuckles softly. âTo be fair, Sam was perfectly ordinary drama, and Kon had basically nothing to do with us. Not- not him being born, anyway. Heâs my brother, obviously, so he- eh, you know what I mean.â
âNot our fault.â Marinette chants quietly. âNot our fault. Not our fault.â
Jon giggles and joins in, echoing the chant until it becomes a cheer and theyâre both incapacitated by their giggles.
Heâs right. Despite the bad parts, when Marinette examines her university career a little closer it becomes clear that, by and large, she does exactly what she set out to do. Especially as Jon and she get better at dealing with conflict, figure themselves out, and establish themselves into this life they build for themselves, even though certain things should be so much more monumental â like Conner showing up compared to what is arguably the worst time in her university life, the reveal of Jon being Superboy â it doesnât really feel like it.
Maybe itâs because theyâre both more comfortable, and because they grow enough to be equipped to handle those things, in their own way. Maybe itâs because of the strength she finds in him, that they find in each other. Maybe itâs because sheâs happy in a way that she wasnât back then that everything else seems so much more pedestrian and simpler to deal with.
It doesnât really matter why. Marinette is just grateful that her life has gotten to this point. All because of Jon.
Theyâre sitting together in a park, a quiet, overcast day taking a respite from their studies, when Jon catches her off guard. âI love you, you know.â Jon says quietly, with so much feeling in his voice that Marinette thinks he must be pondering the same thing she is, how appreciative she is that heâs here. Itâs a small, intimate moment between the two of them, cuddled together in the park. Jon is so good at moments like these. He always manages to leave Marinette breathless. She adamantly refuses to believe heâs just as stunned and overwhelmed as she, even when she can see it transparently on his face, because he always, always comes around with something so damn sweet and meaningful that- âItâs because of you that New York is home. I wouldnât be who I am today without you, so thank you, Marinette, for helping me be someone I really love.â Something like that. âAnd for being yourself â another person that I really, really love.â
Marinette cups his face in her hands. âDonât make me cry in public, Jon!â She whines half-heartedly.
âBut I have to!â Jon pouts. âI have to remind you how much I love you while I can.â His voice takes a more somber note, something beneath the light lilt of it. âI canât stand the thought of you not knowing exactly how special you are, so I have to.â
âYou really donât.â Marinette says too earnestly to be teasing. âI know how much you love me. I just hope you can feel how much I love you. Everything you said I could honestly say right back at you, you know.â
âOf course, I do.â Jon whispers, stealing a kiss. âBut just because you know doesnât mean I shouldnât say it. I have to say it. I donât- I donât have the words. Iâm still trying to figure them out. I have to get them right, and the only way to do that is to keep trying, but also⊠also you deserve to be told how wonderful and beautiful and smart and talented and gorgeous and breathtaking and resplendent and kind and brave and honest and clever and-â
âYou going to run out of adjectives anytime soon?â Marinette squeaks, face aflame and covered with her hands.
âNot even close!â Jon chirps cheerily. His voice falls back into that lower register, the soft one for only the space between them and no further. âBut Iâm serious. I have to keep saying it because you deserve to hear it. Itâs different; knowing, and having it reaffirmed. I just want to keep that smile on your face.â
âYou are so unbearably sweet sometimes, you know that?â
Jon snickers quietly. âSo you keep telling me. But you love me.â
âI do. I absolutely do.â Marinette sighs. âItâs so weird. Just three years ago I thought Adrien was the one.â
Jonâs big eyes gleam curiously. Not in an aggressive way â in fact, itâs with a gentleness somewhere close to sympathy. âDo you still love him?â He asks.
Marinette worries her lip. âIn some ways, yes.â She says honestly. âBut not like this. Not anymore.â She grabs Jonâs hand and kisses the back of it to reaffirm her feelings to him. Heâs not so fragile as to seriously doubt her love for him at the mention of her ex, but admitting she still loves Adrien still canât be the easiest thing in the world, even if itâs not in a romantic sense. âAdrien and I worked. Heroism was a⊠a dealbreaker, I guess. If it werenât for that, I would have probably ended up marrying him. Might even be right now, in that other life.â
Jon furrows his brow at the grass for a moment, just long enough for Marinette to get concerned, then he says, âI get it. I never got as far as you did, but⊠I never told you why I lost my crush on Damian, did I? Wasnât just time, though that was part of it. That was all during high school, as I was getting more and more sick of being Superboy, but Damian was growing up. He was⊠well, I guess he was about where we are now, back when I was still trying to wrap my head around liking guys at all.â Jon shakes his head, smiling fondly. âWhen we were kids, I used to tease him about me being three years younger and six years more mature. Wonder when he got so far ahead of me.â He sighs. âAnyway, despite how hot mature Damian was-â
âYou can say is. I wonât be jealous.â
Jon splutters and flushes brilliantly. ââŠis. Despite that, it was just increasingly clear that heâll never be anything but a hero. As I got sick of it, that whole crush thing justâŠâ Jon makes a motion with his hands, as if tearing something apart.
Marinette nods. âYeah, itâs sort of like that, isnât it? In another life, it mightâve worked, but in this one, it just⊠canât. Iâm just grateful that we work in this life.â
âMhmm. Me too. If it means we work, Iâm glad weâre in this life. Who cares about those other lives when weâve got this right here?â
The rest of their last semester passes by in a flash. Itâs anticlimactic, all things considered, but despite jinxing it by pointing out their strange pattern of drama, nothing terrible at all happens to ruin graduation for them.
Well, there is a small scare with Conner. Hero work isnât safe, even for Kryptonians, but some calming tea and reassurance calms Jon down quickly. It helps that heâs actually kept updated on the situation, and itâs not actually that frightening in hindsight. Both Marinette and Jon have been through far worse.
Still, itâs Connerâs first real beat down. Marinette isnât sure if sheâs inspired or horrified by how quickly, how easily, and how little he hesitates getting right back up. She has to have a few conversations with Jon about that, as the semester continues, but ultimately Conner is free to do as he likes. Marinette will worry about him, just like Jon does, but itâs clear that, at least for now, heroism is where Connerâs heart is.
She doesnât begrudge him that. In fact, heâs ironically one of the least annoying heroes she knows, and she doesnât love those others any less. Adrien still asks her about joining him for patrol when sheâs in Paris, Alya still bugs her about Tikki and what her hero name with Wayzz is and if sheâll give her an interview as the turtle hero, temporary heroes from her time fighting Hawk Moth, original and re-chosen both, ask after their kwami and usually end up inviting her out if she decides to let them go for a run (she rarely has reason to say no to letting them see the kwami, so those invites are fairly common).
Hell, even Damian is more respectful about not trying to bring her back into hero work than her Parisian friends are. Though, to be fair, sheâs only assuming he even knows. She never actually tells him; she just assumes that he of all people will have her figured out, if Superman knowing doesnât mean her identity is common knowledge within the Justice League. It doesnât concern her either way. Sheâs not Ladybug anymore, and she knows Damian isnât stupid enough to both put the Miracle Box in danger and risk outing Jon and his family just by her proximity to them. Damianâs actually pretty cool, all things considered.
But the fact is that when Conner is in her and Jonâs apartment, he never even mentions his own hero work. He talks about the Teen Titans sometimes, but only about them being his friends. He only talks about them in situations where, minus powers, they could be any teenagers at all. He doesnât mention missions or training or anything of the sort. Marinette canât help but wonder if heâs doing that on purpose, thinking of Jonâs feelings about it, or if he himself doesnât want to bring it up. Thinking about it, this little New York apartment is probably the closest thing to normal family life the kid has, and Marinette can see the look in his eyes. She wonât be surprised if the latter is the true reason.
Regardless of reason, though, heâs a welcome addition to their home. Marinette makes sure to prepare some tea for him whenever he stops by, and even once has to wrangle a whole gaggle of rowdy, superpowered teenagers as the other Titans decide to crash the party. (Theyâre notably less restrained about asking about Marinette and Jonâs heroic pasts, and after a while of growing quietly more and more irritated, Conner cuts in when one of his friends asks why Jon and Marinette quit heroism to berate his friend for being intrusive, saying to stop prying into his family. Marinette shares a smile with Jon, thinking how cute it is that heâs defending them, and secretly melting inside that heâs openly including her in his family, and calmly answers the question anyway, patting Connerâs head and passing him another cup of tea. He calms down, after that, though he never seems comfortable so long as they stay on the hero topic.)
But overall, nothing groundbreaking happens. Marinette and Jon go out throughout the semester, heâs ridiculously cute like always, Adrien teases her about it good-naturedly and Marinette sees through the façade of levity to the concern and firm affirmation that heâs okay with her and Jon like always, Louise and Jon geek out, leaving Kasey and Marinette to look at each other and shake their heads like always, the boys set up more shenanigans to get David and Tamias together (âNot much time left!â Jesse insists. âWe got to pull out the big guns!â) and that doesnât happen, but something catches on fire like always.
Itâs fun. Eventful but not stressful. And it all culminates in what everything over the past four years is leading to. Graduation.
The days leading up to it, Marinette is legitimately considering not walking the stage at all. Her graduation and Jonâs are a day apart, so thereâs not a scheduling conflict, but it is close enough that Marinette considers just prioritizing his. After all, her friends and family are mostly overseas. A lot of them wonât be able to come anyway, whereas Jon has his whole family here. It only makes sense.
Jon disagrees, obviously, but itâs not until Jagged rolls around with half her friends from Paris already packed into his car that Marinette concedes completely.
Itâs worth it just to see the look on Kaseyâs face when she shows up at Marinetteâs apartment to get ready for graduation together and Jagged Stone is there already fussing over her. Marinette is half-certain Kasey is about to faint, and Jagged welcoming her like an overeager puppy and starting to fuss over her preparations for the ceremony doesnât help matters.
Between Jagged, Marinetteâs parents, a good majority of Marinetteâs not insignificant number of friends, Kasey and Louise, Jonâs parents, grandparents, aunt, and brother, Bruce Wayneâs entire family (Marinette thinks? Thereâs a lot of them, and theyâre all mysterious.), a smattering of other League heroes, and Jesse, Mason, David, and Tamias, their tiny apartment isnât anywhere near big enough to handle everyone. Luckily, they have no less than five absurdly wealthy people among them, and their little afterparties are held in one of their notably larger temporary residences.
But during the graduation itself, Marinette is strangely nervous. Sheâs certain her old nerves will come back to bite her and sheâll trip on stage and make a fool of herself. Kasey and Louise are nowhere near her in the seats, so sheâs on her own down in the middle of the stadium surrounded by her peers and their families.
She bounces her knee, unable to keep still, and then her row stands, and she follows without thinking about what sheâs doing, and there are pictures taken, and the next thing she knows sheâs facing out at the crowd. Itâs a crowd she knows, and she smiles. This crowd doesnât ask anything of her but to collect her diploma, have her two seconds in the spotlight, and move on for the next student. This crowd doesnât take. And warmth surges through Marinette, and sheâs proud. Sheâs so proud that she can cry.
I really did it. She thinks. Cameras flash, people scream, Marinette swears she can hear Jagged, and she swears his voice is amplified somehow (thatâll probably get him kicked out, if him being Jagged Stone doesnât give him a free pass, if only the once, Marinette thinks with a giggle), and then sheâs continuing on, shaking hands with some of the staff, and then sheâs off the stage entirely, making her way back to her seat.
She looks at the paper in her hands â not her diploma, just a little note of a stand-in, made generally, with no names and no specifics, so that no one needs to worry about which one is handed to which student (sheâll get the real diploma after the ceremony ends) â and she feels so, so proud of herself.
Jon, when sheâs released, with her true diploma in a large envelope in her hands, is the first to capture her in the biggest hug he can muster. The rest of the group surrounds them, about half of them pouting that Jon doesnât let her go for them to hug, as Jon says in her ear, âYou did it. No takebacksies.â
Marinette gets a good laugh at that.
âYouâre the most amazing person Iâve ever met. You know that?â Jon says quietly, intimately, despite their menagerie of onlookers. âYouâve changed my life for the better. Iâm the person I am today because of you. So, thank you. You are beautiful, and so intelligent, and the most creative person in the world, and youâre everything you decide to be, and that still takes my breath away.â
Through the coos of all their eavesdropping friends, and Jesseâs wolf-whistling, Marinette chokes over just Jonâs name.
âI love you so, so much, Marinette. I will never take you for granted.â
Marinette forgoes the words that get caught in her throat and just kisses him instead.
When they separate from each other, and the others get their chance to hug her, Alya frowns at Jon. âWait, that wasnât a proposal?â She hisses, not nearly quiet enough for Marinette not to hear.
Jon just giggles impishly. âWhy would you think that?â
âI- you- how often do you do that?â
âRemind the love of my life how talented and smart and awesome and resplendent she is?â Jon asks. âAs often as I can. Duh.â
Marinette covers her face as her parents lean in to tell her that heâs a keeper, and to remind her to let them know as soon as he does propose.
As if she doesnât already know that, or that sheâll do anything different.
ââ-=ââ-
Tag List: @moonystars14 @pawsitivelymiraculous @magic-miraculous @vixen-uchiha @buticaaba @bigpicklebananatree @lozzybowe @moonlightstar64 @amayakans @theatreandcomicfreak @toodaloo-kangaroo @too0bsessedformyowngood @justcourtteeâ <3
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Hey so I hit 100 followers today!
Buckle up, this is gonna be a LOOOONG post.
I quite honestly expected it (while my ego is a little smaller than my jokes make it out to be it is definitely present), I didnât expect it to happen so fast.
Itâs not an insane milestone, plenty of people have 100 followers. A hefty portion of my followers are bigger than me. But itâs still important to me. Knowing that thereâs 100 people out there who enjoy my shit makes me happy.
First and foremost the credit quite honestly has to go to ahegao George Washington. No, Iâm not joking. Until I posted on r/tumblr about my desire to draw that, I had 0 followers. I jumped to like 10 overnight, which was awesome. And then those new followers helped me spread my posts and get more attention.
Secondly Iâd like to shoutout @imaverysadgirl and @themeaninglessjumble. You two were my first real tumblr frens. You were the first of my followers to really interact with me. Ember, Iâm super happy youâre alive to see me hit 100 followers. Jumble (I donât know your name unless I forgot it), your art and creations are great and you deserve way more attention.
To all the rest of you, you guys are great, too. Every new follower makes me happy. Iâd say I donât deserve you all, but my colossal ego says I do. Regardless, being nemesi and getting called out for being horny on main and sending and receiving asks has made this last month or so great.
Finally, for all the shit it gets, and for all the shit it pulls, [tumblr] really is pretty dope. I got to meet you all, and itâs actively making me a better person by exposing me to groups of people Iâd rarely interact with in real life.
Why does it feel like Iâm saying goodbye? Iâm not, donât worry. I plan to stay, and neither death nor pain shall drive me from this hellsite. Iâm just saying thanks.
Now with the thanks out of the way, I want to talk about myself a little. Just the stuff that Iâve always wanted to say and never quite gathered my thoughts and found the time to talk about.
Youâre gonna get to know me so well! This is like a mini autobiography!
First off, my mental health. This is something I donât talk about much on this blog, mostly because it doesnât need much talking about. Iâm doing pretty well, to be honest. I have a smattering of anxiety and Iâm maybe a little too introverted for my own good, but Iâm not suffering from depression and the only time I ever even remotely considered suicide was when I just really really didnât want to go to French class. COVID has been great for me, since I donât have to see people. I suppose Iâm not a great person to talk to if youâre struggling with depression or suicidal thoughts, seeing as I canât personally relate, but Iâm still always here for you guys if you need me. Just because I havenât lived through your experiences doesnât mean I canât try to help.
Next up I want to talk about my sexuality. This oneâs a bit of a mystery. For the past 16 years of my life Iâve considered myself 100% straight. But lately (letâs be honest, following the release of Spirit Blossom Thresh) Iâve been wondering if I might be bi. How many times can I joke about wanting to smash sexy boys before itâs not really a joke anymore? And if I am, a lot of things would suddenly make a lot of sense. But every time I think I have it figured out it suddenly feels like I have no clue whatâs going on. Regardless, my sexuality has honestly never been a massive part of my identity (though Iâm definitely not asexual, my friends can attest Iâm far too horny for that). I have no clue if Iâm bi and for now itâs kind of a fun little adventure!
I guess Iâll talk about school and stuff now. Believe it or not, Iâm kinda smart. Iâm taking a shitton of AP courses this year. But I simultaneously feel like itâs too much and not enough. Iâm smart, but Iâm not a great student. Compared to my dad, who graduated college with a 3.98 GPA (and his only B being in History of Canada as an American) and now has a super well-paying government STEM job that he loves, I feel like even if I work my ass off Iâll never quite measure up. And my parents have had super high expectations of me, and itâs only recently that theyâve started to accept that I might get some Bâs here and there. Iâm worried about all the homework this year. Iâm a year ahead in Math but I donât feel good enough at math to be taking AP calculus junior year. Iâm worried Iâm going to get like a C. But for the most part school is alright, too. Thatâs sort of the trend in my life. Everythingâs alright.
Time to talk about my love life! I have no love life! Iâve been single for 17 years and probably stand no chance of changing that until at least college! Haha Iâm so alone! But I can live with it. Growing up an only child with a few friends means that Iâm pretty good at functioning without a ton of social interaction, and, while Iâd like a partner someday, Iâm not desperate. I can wait until I find someone. Pretty much my goal is not to die alone.
Onto sports maybe? I played soccer for most of my life, and was always the worst player on the select team. I was too good for the normal team and not good enough for the select team (kinda like math). Soccer was really toxic, especially when youâre the worst player on a team of high school jock drug addict boys. So I quit, and started playing frisbee! Itâs a lot better. The people are nicer! But my first season never happened because of COVID and now Iâm in my Junior year and havenât played much frisbee! So I kinda suck! But Iâm physically fit and thatâs good enough for me! On my own time I bike and run to stay in shape.
Are you still with me? Now Iâm gonna talk about my hobbies and things!
Iâve been playing video games for a long time. I kinda suck at them to be totally honest. I probably have below-average reaction time, and my parents only let me play 15 minutes a day for most of my childhood, so I have a lot less practice than most of my friends. Iâm pretty slick with Swain in LoL tho.
This next part is borderline shameless self-promotion, but since the Kickstarter isnât live yet I guess it doesnât count. Iâm making a tabletop role playing game! Iâve been working on it for the past few years. My goal is to launch the Kickstarter prior to my college applications, because thatâll look sexy as fuck to potential colleges. Itâs a post-apocalyptic sci-fi game where you play as supersoldiers trying to reconquer the wastelands of Earth for humanity. Iâll do a big post on it when I launch the Kickstarter, and I guess thatâll also be a full name reveal (kinda spooky since my full name is ENTIRELY unique and one-of-a-kind. More ego boost lmao).
And finally I want to talk about my art and writing. Iâll start with my drawing, and finish off with my writing, since thatâs what Iâd most like to be known for on here (but thatâll never happen because my caveman brain shitposts are too funny).
So Iâve been doodling for a long time. I briefly got formal art training but sacrificing my Saturday mornings to draw what someone else wanted me to make so that I could make better stuff in the future didnât appeal to my 8-year-old brain. I draw in the margins of worksheets. I draw on random sheets of paper. Recently my parents bought me a drawing tablet, and Iâve been trying to improve at digital art. Iâd say Iâm getting better, but I donât practice nearly enough. All in all my art serves its purpose. It makes people laugh and can sometimes creep people out. Itâll never go in a museum, and Iâll never make money off of it but whatever.
And finally, my writing.
How can I talk about writing without talking about reading? Iâve likely read more books than both my parents combined, and if not, itâs close (and my mom is a prolific reader too). I have three bookshelves in my room and books on every surface. You canât follow me for long without seeing a post ranting about my latest read. I love to read and I read incredibly fast. Reading spurred my love of English class, which in turn helped me write.
And finally, we get to writing in and of itself. Iâve been writing stories since I was a little kid. Iâd like to think Iâve improved a fair bit. Iâm still no novelist, but I consider myself a fairly adept short story writer.
But I suppose where my writing really stems from is my bed. Every night while Iâm lying in bed, I tell myself stories until I fall asleep. I work on a story until itâs done or until I get bored of it. Along the way, in the shower, on my bike, I build the world of the story, crafting the plot. Sometimes the stories are elaborate fanfictions of my latest reads. Thatâs probably how they started. Often, theyâre unique worlds all of their own. My current writing posts are about the City of Mammon, but my current story in my head is about some vampires who hunt other vampires in Victorian England.
And now we get into the process of writing. Itâs fun! I sit myself down with an idea in my head, and use all the fancy words I picked up from my books to convey the vibes I want. I honestly wouldnât be a great writing teacher. Itâs just a skill that comes naturally to me as a result of what Iâve been doing with my free time my whole life. And itâs beautiful. And every time someone compliments my writing or reblogs it, I love writing just a little bit more.
Well I guess this is it. The 100 follower special. I wonder how many of you guys will take the time out of your day to read this. Hopefully a lot!
James (or That House) signing off for the night!
<3 thanks guys
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Iâm a huge RenRuki fan so Iâm stoked to find this page of glorious work and active engagement relating to this topic I could go on about! I was wondering... during their separation, do you think Renji and Rukia slept with/dated other people? One more than the other? Just wanna know your insight since you put so much depth into their relationship. I love it. (I personally like to think that Renji had a bit of a âhoe phaseâ especially while he was in the 11th)
Tumblr is so great, I canât believe people actually value my opinion on this stuff (this is absolutely one of my favorite topics). Thank you so much for your kind words, and I am ecstatic for the opportunity to pontificate on this topic.
Just to clarify, if you were asking for my opinion on the source material, and I had to âsupport my opinionâ or âcite referencesâ, my actual interpretation of canon is that no, they were absolutely celibate during this time. Rukia had a cute liâl crush on her vice-captain and Renji probably went on one very heterosexual date with a girl once and felt bad about it for a year.
When I am being generous and world-buildy, I like to consider the fact that shinigami are souls. They do not have bodies or hormones and so I can get behind the idea that bonds of family and friendship are far more important than sex and attraction, because those are fundamentally earthly concerns. In the hands of a thoughtful, talented, preferably ace writer, this could be an incredibly interesting setting but that is, uh, not consistent with any other aspect of Soul Society, including the fact that they sell sexy calendars of the captains, plus Kubo took the time out to canonically remind us that Soul Reapers poop and have babies.
So, instead, here is the horny Polynya headcanon version, which is what you probably wanted anyway. Iâm putting it under a cut because it gets a little R-rated, and also itâs hella long, but the short answer is Renji absolutely had a slutty phase.
Some people headcanon that Rukia and Renji were actually in a romantic relationship at the time of her adoption, and if thatâs your reading of it, and you want to believe that they waited for each other out of loyalty, I suppose I can get behind that.
I donât think they were together, though. I waver from time to time about how physical their affection got in Rukongai, but I think they fell in love and never admitted it. When their last friend died, they both became absolutely terrified of losing the other, so they came to the Seireitei in order to get strong and not die. I donât think Rukia ever wanted to be Soul Reaper, to be honest. Given the strength of her principles and her particular moral code, I do think she is a great one, in the style of âI would never want to be in a club that would have me in it.â Consistent with Oetsuâs trial in the Royal Realm, I think Renji was born (died?) to be a Soul Reaper and Rukia knew this and also that he would never go unless she went with him. She absolutely regarded getting him into Shinâou as saving his life and getting him where he belonged.
Once they were in school, I think they had to keep their distance socially if they wanted to succeed. The Gotei runs entirely on nepotism, and Rukongai kids who donât adapt are looking at Squad 11 or 4, best case scenario. Even if they were aware of their feelings for each other, they had to play it cool for now. Renji is a long-term planner, and I think he set his sights on pass tests -> graduate -> get Gotei position -> live happily ever after with Rukia. Rukia is not so good at long term planning, and also not so good at formal education and I think she just got depressed and salty, especially because she was never sure if he actually returned her feelings or not. I absolutely think that when she accepted the adoption, she assumed she was leaving Renji to his live his best life, and at least going somewhere she was wanted.
Even though we, the reader, are presented this story as a tragedy, in many ways, this is exactly what they had hoped for. They lived. Thatâs it. Thatâs all they ever wanted. Renji got to have his perfect job and Rukia got to live in indescribable luxury. They are both so, so happy about this and have no idea why their faces are so wet right now.
The last thing either of them wants, to be honest, is the other one pining after them. They have each accepted trudging through their life in misery because they think they have made the other happy. Thereâs a scene were Byakuya shows up to the Squad 6 holding cells to announce to Rukia that he has no plans to save her, and Renji looks just devastated, not just because Rukiaâs gonna die, but because he thought he was sending her to happiness.
Also, on a meta level, I am middle aged, and for me, the romance of only ever being with one person is boring as hell. The idea that they would get together and lose their virginity to each other just makes me indescribably tired. Childhood-friends-to-lovers isnât actually that interesting to me-- it is the separation itself that makes it spicy-- that they went off and had other life experiences-- and sexual experiences, and came back found that they loved this person even more now.
I headcanon Rukia as very horny and pro-sex in theory, but has is a big problem of opportunity. On one hand, I think she and Byakuya have a firm donât-ask-donât-tell policy, where as long as she stays out of the gossip columns, he doesnât care what she does. On the other hand, though, I feel like secret affairs are kinda hard to manage, especially since she entered the noble network late in life. Anyway, I figure sheâs had a number of casual affairs, mostly with other nobles who are invested in not getting caught, and also do not have any interest in any sort of emotional attachment. I think Rukia is absolutely bi, and mostly slept with ladies because they were more likely to be discreet, although there was probably a dude or two in there somewhere. Rukia only has two relatinship modes-- detached and ride-or-die, and she was very careful to keep everything in category 1, because she had no expectation of ever having a functional relationship that would go anywhere; no one she was actually interesting in being with would ever pass Kuchiki muster. I think she tried dating a nice boy from Squad 8 once, and everyone in Squad 13 thought it was the cutest thing they had ever seen. They went on three dates and never kissed and Rukia hated it and never did it again. She let herself have a huge crush on both Kaien and Miyako Shiba, because she was absolutely sure it could never go anywhere, and that definitely played into her devastation at their death. She may have had some Bad Decisions Sex in the wake of that, but I think for the most part, the affairs became more trouble than they were worth, and sheâs been on a pretty long dry spell around the time we meet her.
That being said, I think Rukia is a lady who takes care of herself, if you get my drift. I think she has an extensive collection of erotic romance novels, a good imagination, and Kuchiki money worth of self-service sex toys. I think by the time she and Renji actually hook up, she has decades worth of pent up fantasies, and fortunately for her, he is intrigued by her ideas and would like to sign up for her newsletter, please and thank you.
Speaking of Renji, letâs talk about Renji! After Rukia left, I think Renji Made Some Plans and buckled down into a long, hard haul of Making Himself Worthy of Seeing Rukia Again. He made it through school, he went into Squad 5 with Izuru and Momo and... lost 90% of his momentum. This is exactly the scenario of the kid who busts ass through college to follow their dream, and then two years into their dream job, realizes that they are going to be formatting pivot tables in Excel for the next 15 years before they get to do anything remotely interesting. At this point, Renji is young, hot, bisexual, inked, and not very satisfied with his day job, and Thus Began the Ho Period.
Momo and Izuru hate this. They hate it so much. They have both had big crushes on Renji since school and they are right there. It wouldnât be so bad if he would find a nice sweet partner that they like, but no, he just goes off on weeknights and comes home reeking of alcohol and covered in hickeys and ruining his career even though his job performance is actually fine. The fact is, even though he has always acted like he doesnât know, of course he knows they like him, heâs not dumb, but Izuru and Momo are the type of people who mate for life, and Renji absolutely knows how badly he would break their hearts. He canât even talk about it with them, all he can do it pretend like he doesnât notice and hope theyâll realize what trash he is. He still loves Rukia and will always love Rukia and has made peace with the idea that he will likely never get to be with her-- heâs still working towards it because he must, because it would kill him to give up, but he knows that heâs only good for a fight or a fuck and not much else. Their friendship gets increasingly strained until Momo and Izuru canât understand anything he does and he canât stand them caring so damn much.
Anyway, this escalates in deciding to leave Nice, Respectable Squad 5 entirely, and joining the French Foreign Legion Squad 11. Squad 11 respects a manâs right to wallow, and Renji takes a swan dive to rock bottom. His only saving grace is his training with Ikkaku, which he takes absolutely seriously. Yumichika eventually takes interest in Renji, and teaches him how to take care of his hair and have standards. Yumichika and Ikkaku realize that if they can make him Functional, they can get him to do paperwork, so they help him beat the Sixth Seat and let him start hanging out with their friends.
Renji is still sleeping around at this point, but at least heâs sleeping around with a better class of people. I know what youâre thinking. Youâre thinking, Polynya, has Matsumoto ever pegged Renji? (You probably werenât actually thinking that) The answer is yes, Matsumoto has absolutely pegged Renji, and she was utterly delighted to give Rukia tips later on. Rukia does not begrudge Renji his slutty period in the least, because she knows that, given the opportunity, she probably would have been Worse, and also, heâs slept with 3/4 of the Gotei and picked her out of all of them, and also, heâs just incredible at oral.
The slutty phase tapered off when Renji had a bit of an actual relationship with Shuuhei. First of all, they are absolutely each otherâs types, physically. Secondly, Shuuhei (whom I headcanon as significantly less pathetic and more bisexual than in canon) would be able to handle being in a relationship that is fun and supportive, even if itâs not destined to last. He is well aware that Renji is devoted to beating Captain Kuchiki and that heâs never going to truly be able to be in love with anyone until he gets some closure with Rukia, but thatâs a long way off, and Shuuheiâs got his own baggage, who doesnât have baggage? So they sleep together and go to the bar together and hold hands sometimes and tool around on the motorbike and wear a lot of leather and Hisagi cooks Renji food and Renji eats it and theyâre pretty happy for a few years.
Eventually, around the time he gets serious about trying to make vice-captain, Renji starts to hang out with Izuru and Momo again, who have recently made vice-captain themselves, and are really happy to see that heâs gotten himself back on the wagon. Heâs started thinking about Rukia a lot again, and heâs feeling a little bad because he loves Shuuhei, but heâs not in love with Shuuhei, and also, Shuuhei and Izuru have started looking at each other when they go out drinking, so Renji claims he needs to concentrate on the vice-captainâs exam and they have some nice breakup sex and then he sliiiiiides on outta there like a good bro and is very happy for his friends when they start hooking up.
Did that cover it? Boy, I had a lot of thoughts on that, huh? To summarize: They both saw other people. Renji had way more sex, just a tremendous amount of sex, but always carried a torch for Rukia (not really intentionally, I think he would have liked to be able to get over her, he just couldnât), whereas I think she really did give up on him for a while.
Thank you for coming to my TED talk, please read my fanfiction, where I am constantly hinting at all this stuff, I swear I will eventually finish that Squad 11 story.
#renruki#bleach headcanons#rukia kuchiki#renji abarai#i have at least 3 in-progress fanfics that tackle various aspects of this#maybe i should... finish one?#ÂŻ\_(ă)_/ÂŻ
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Survey #435
from yesterday, donât feel like updating the answers. :^)
When you get married what do you think youâll put most of your focus and money into? Uhhh. I really don't know... I mean maybe doing all I can do avoid debt? That's what my parents mostly argued about, and I know financial strain can really affect a couple. I never want that burden. Who in your life causes you the most stress or negative feelings? My damn self. Have you ever had a teacher that also taught your parents? No; my parents didn't grow up here. Wait! I THINK Mom had one of my college professors? I don't recall for sure, and I definitely don't remember who it was. Are you the type of person who seeks out revenge? Nah. Are there any songs that inspire you? Certainly, such as "Life Won't Wait" by Ozzy Osbourne, "Get Up" by Shinedown, and more. How do you feel about celebrities getting involved in politics? Do you think that the celebrity world and the political world should be kept apart? Not at all; everyone has the right to share their opinion and should not feel like it's necessary to censor it. Let them be people with morals and beliefs, too. I'm totally fine with them CHOOSING to be quiet about controversial subjects, but they're more than welcome to share their thoughts on any topic. What is one pro of living where you do, and what is one con? What is a pro and a con of living where you wished you lived? I guess the only real pro (and this is horrible to be the first thought) is that we're under the radar; like, not really a target for terrorism or anything, lol. I'd get kinda nervous if I lived in, like, Washington D.C. or something. We have A LOT of cons: there is NOTHING to do, we're essentially a hub for crime, the scenery is boring and bland as fuck... I could go on for a long time. I'd love to live in many areas in North America, but I'll go with Alaska, since that would absolute RULE. A strong pro would definitely be the cold climate and the sights, but it would definitely be a con to me when that relentless dark era lasts for months on end. I need the sun (from inside anyway, ha ha) sometimes, because it being dark for what, half a year?, would really damage my happiness. What is your favorite episode of your favorite TV show? Referring to Meerkat Manor, it's actually the one where Mozart dies, I think, even though it destroyed my heart. I just think the writer portrayed it as so beautifully tragic, and the clips shown were so pretty. Does having others watch you do things make you uncomfortable? What sorts of things make you extremely uncomfortable if you are watched while doing them? Are there any things that give you confidence to do if you have an audience? ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY. Do NOT watch me on the computer (especially when writing), I literally will not draw if someone's watching (inevitably besides in Art classes, I think Sara is legit the only person who's watched me draw a bit), I really don't like people watching me edit photography, I'm nooot a fan of others seeing me exercise (though I kinda have to suck that up with having a personal trainer), etc. etc. Just don't watch me do anything, lol. I don't know what actually boosts my confidence if I'm being observed. Does someone in your house speak a different language on a regular basis? No. Do you follow or care about any big sports events? Not at all. Are there any activities people normally do together that you prefer doing alone? Hm. I dunno. If you are going somewhere where youâll have to wait for a while (i.e. a doctorâs office), do you bring something to occupy yourself? My phone, yeah. How long is your favorite song? I checked, and it's almost six minutes. Do you think youâd ever want to be âinternet famousâ? I'll admit I've somewhat thought about it, only because my career choices are running so dry, and I'd be able to do it alone. However, I've got noooo idea what I'd actually do, and I also don't think I could handle ridicule or anything like that for any reason. Having a spotlight on me would stress me out. Who was the main cook of your Thanksgiving meal last year? My older sister. What moment in your life have you been most scared? Probably this one occasion where Dad had to pick my sister and me up from school one day and make the 30-minute drive home. Well. He was clearly in a hellish mood because he was flying. He ran stop signs and red lights, passed people illegally... I was in the passenger's seat and absolutely convinced we were going to crash. I can barely believe we didn't. Who was the last person you slow danced with? -_- Do you prefer headphones or earbuds? Earbuds. I like how they block out external sound better, and they don't hurt my ears like headphones do. What person/people do you trust the most? My mom. Who in your life do you care about more than yourself? My parents, sisters, my nieces and nephew, Sara... A lot of people, if I'm being honest. I don't value my life as much as I should. Which wild animal would you most like to have as a pet? I am DESPERATE to rescue an opossum one day. :''''( What teacher did all the high school boys/girls have a crush on? I have no idea. Have you ever felt seriously violated? No. Do you watch American Horror Story? I adore(d) the first season; it was mine and Jason's "show." We watched most of season two as well, but I lost interest in the later half of it. I haven't really watched it since, save for the pilot episode of some season I forgot. Does your hometown have any urban legends/scary stories? Not to my knowledge. Whatâs the scariest nightmare you remember having? Something involving my dad that I won't speak about. Pancakes or French toast? Oh my god, French toast. That sounds delicious rn. Are there any apps youâre addicted to? Not addicted, nah. Did you have a favorite stuffed animal as a child? Yes; it was a bunny holding a multicolor polka-dotted blanket. Do you still collect stuffed animals? Hell yeah. Have you ever had eggs cooked over a campfire? No. What colors of mascara have you worn on your lashes? Just black. What font do you usually use? I mean, it depends on what I'm doing. Is it supposed to appear professional? Aesthetically pleasing? It varies too much to answer this with one font. What about font colors? Usually just black, but again, it depends on what I'm writing. Are you good at making graphics or designing layouts? Ha, no. Do you put gel or mousse in your hair? No. Sleep with just one pillow? No, I use two. I am VERY uncomfortable with just one. Ever woke up crying? Yeah, from nightmares. Do you like big dogs or small dogs better? It depends on the breed and their energy level. I don't really prefer one over the other as a general judgment. Are you going to graduate high school on time? I did. Been to the zoo lately? No, but I'd love to go. :/ Now that I'd consider myself at least a pretty decent photographer, I'd love to see what shots I could take. I LOVE photographing animals with how unpredictable they are. It's like playing the lottery; you really don't know what you're going to get, but you have the chance for seriously priceless moments. Even if we could afford the trip, though, I know I wouldn't last long whatsoever with my legs being as weak as gelatine. I know especially that there's a notable incline in the path, and I'd never make it up it. I really, really look forward to the day where I can really start feeling a difference in my body thanks to the gym. Have you ever been to Mississippi? No. What did you do for your last birthday? We went to The Cheesecake Factory. Do you like to cook? No. What is the worst thing that has happened to you in your entire life? If I'm looking at the big picture and what truly damaged my pleasure in life the most, it'd be developing depression and such intense anxiety. I've given up so much and changed so negatively because of it. Do you know when your next family reunion will be? We've never had one. My family is too spread out. What is your favorite thing to do with your significant other? I'm single, but even in a relationship, I love playing video games together. I've got multiple memories of just having a great time doing that. Where is âhomeâ for you? Wherever Mom is. Is there an animal that creeps you out? Whale sharks, maggots and other bug larvae, centipedes, many beetles, and some other bugs. What is the name of the last band you discovered? Uhhh.. good question. I admittedly don't listen to new music a lot. I tend to stick to the stuff I know. Do you prefer group projects, or would you prefer to work alone? I would rather kick my ankle against a Razer scooter than do a group project. Have you ever been to Hooters? No. Do you have a brother? Whatâs his name? Yeah, Robert, but everyone calls him "Bobby." Have you ever thought that your life was so bad you wanted to give up? About a billion times. I still do sometimes. Do you have a ceiling fan located in your bedroom? Yes. Have you ever been in a lighthouse? No, but I was supposed to visit one in the fourth grade. The water was way too aggressive that day, though, so we had a change of plans and went to a closer island. Hell, it might have been the better option, because it had horses. I remember collecting seashells, too, and just watching the power of the ocean hammer at the shores. It was really pretty. Have you ever been bitten by an animal? Only playfully, like by a cat. Well wait, I think my old baby iguana may have bitten me once (he sure tried to, ha ha), but I don't remember for sure. Did it rain today? Yes. It rains pretty much every afternoon here in the late summer. What was the name of the last dog you pet? Zeke, my sister's German shepherd. He's adorable. Has your luggage ever been lost at the airport? Did you get it back? No. Do you have certain friends that you hug every time you see them? I pretty much always hug my friends when I see them. I'm a big hugger. Have you ever witnessed a tornado? No, thank the fucking Lord. Who is your favorite person to talk to when youâre down? Sara. What are you listening to right now? "Blood For Blood" by Powerwolf. Can you get over people easy? Hell no. I do NOT handle loss well AT ALL. And not just romantically. What was the last thing you carried to your room? A drink. Do you drink water that comes from your sink? Only once it's been filtered. Have you ever prank called the police? That is fucking awful. No. Whatâs your LEAST favorite smiley? XD looks so stupid to me I'm sorry lmao xD reigns supreme. Do you like Italian food? Yeah, more than I used to. Have you ever put red lipstick on just to make lip marks on something? No. Do you watch Shane Dawson on YouTube? Isn't his career pretty much toast now? I DID used to love his videos, though. I still occasionally watch his fiance, though, and he pops up sometimes. Regardless of everything, I still think he's funny as fuck. Would you ever spend a day to see what itâs like to be homeless? NOOOOOOO NO NO NO NO. I am TERRIFIED of living on the streets someday. I want NO idea what it's like. Is the house youâre currently living in over 50 years old? I highly doubt that. Have you ever had a yard sale? Many. What is your favorite color? Baby pink. Did you have a good day or a bad day? Today was extreeeemely dull and felt like it lasted eons. Do you know anyone that has/had cancer? I sadly know maaaaany. Have you ever read somebody elseâs diary? No, that is incredibly rude. Do you enjoy going to school? I hated it from start to end. Like I have good memories, but overall, I hated school. Were you a big jump roper back in the day? OHHHH YES. I almost learned how to double-dutch, even. I could jump with two ropes, but not jump in with two. Are you a local celebrity? Definitely not. Do you eat candy daily? No. I'm already fat dude, I don't need candy. I avoid candy as best as I can. Do you get nervous with public speaking? Like you would not believe. How old were you when you got your driver's license (if you have it)? I'm 25 and still don't have it. Has someone of the opposite sex ever told you they loved you? Yes. What memory are you most afraid of losing? Meh, I don't know. A lot of what I consider my "favorite" memories I'd honestly be better off losing, probably. Who accompanied you to your first concert? My mom, younger sister, and Jason. Would you rather have tickets to see your favorite band in concert, or $100 to go shopping? TAKE ME TO THE OZZY CONCERT. What do you usually eat for breakfast? It really varies. I'd say cereal most often, probably? Do you wish you were more outgoing? Yeah. Do you know anyone who wears a hearing aid? I don't think so?
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âŠÂ pairing : nakamoto yuta x female reader . âŠÂ genre : angst , smut . âŠÂ sub genre : church boy!yuta , neighbors!au , fwb!au âŠÂ tropes : mutual pining , friends with benefits , small town lovers . âŠÂ word count : 5082 . âŠÂ warnings : religion , smut , brief mention of smoking , all lowercase .
a / n : iâm just here to drop this & then go back to lurking , itâs just been in my head so long that i need to let it out . this is unedited & probably doesnât make sense , but we r just gonna roll with it & pretend that it does . i might just . Linger after posting this but if uâve an nct 127 member + a specific au , perhaps , let me know . anyway ,,,
playlist : every chase atlantic song ever ( see : church & devilish ) , no right to love you by rhys lewis , god donât leave me by highasakite .
i. he asks you of your virtue on a friday night. youâre family friends, his parents are fond of yours and when both children are home from their post - graduate lives, they take the opportunity to reconnect. heâs washed in the red glow of the neon signs in the diner window, leaned back in the ugly red booths with his arm draped up on the seat â  and though his father leads the sermon every sunday, he looks like sin. youâve always thought that about him; there was no way someone who looked at you like that was ever holy. so much danger laid in his dark eyes, in the sharpness of his jaw, the curve of his lips â  he was utter temptation and you were just a sinner.
but, when he leans across the table to ask you, âare you a virgin?â you almost choke on your drink. your parents are right behind you in their own booth, talking to his parents about the town and the changes that keep coming â Â and heâs got a smooth curve to his lips while he innocently reaches for a french fry from the little black basket on the old, linoleum tables.
âhow is that any of your business?â you ask, boldly swatting his hands away from the basket you ordered after he said he didnât want anything. âor appropriate to ask?â
âweâre friends, arenât we?â
but you send him a skeptical look, because no â Â you are not friends with yuta, or the nakamotos. your parents are. in your entire life, heâs only ever held a genuine conversation with you when forced. awkward dinner parties, after your high school graduation parties, that one thanksgiving they were invited over because your extended family bailed â Â heâs barely more than an acquaintance. yutaâs a familiar face in the crowd, a vague figure you might recognize if heâs dressed a certain way, the laugh you think you recognize when youâre halfway across the country at school. you mightâve spent years pining over the boy down the street who looked like he himself was an angel, but never once has he ever looked your way on his own volition.
âis that what you call this?â you muse, picking up a french fry. âfriendship?â
âlisten, iâm just curious.â despite him loudly stating about how unhungry he is, he takes another one of your fries. âi was thinking about what i did to you behind the church last time we were both in town.â
his words are innocent, but his intents are devilish. despite your best efforts, you feel your cheeks heating up at the mention of spring break â Â of his head underneath your dress as he spoke invocations between your thighs. he had a way with word , he always had and he had talked his way up your dress. it was just a hand on your thigh in the pews, then a ghost of kiss behind your ear when leading you out the church, then the filthy prayers that he executed with his tongue. he had drawn godâs name from your mouth while holding you against the church, held your legs apart as you cried out his name on holy ground.
he was thinking about it, but you thought of it often â Â probably more than he did.
âyou stopped me before we could go any further, i thought you just werenât interested.â the corner of his lips lifted. âbut then, i thought to myself, is she a virgin? is that why she stopped me?â
you chewed on your food slowly, bravely holding his gaze as the neon lights buzzed in the background. âdo you think iâm a virgin?â you asked. âitâs been months since you ate me out behind your dadâs church and youâre only asking now? how long have you been thinking about me?â
unexpectedly, you match the cockiness that he wears so well. time has changed you; youâre no longer the damsel, the final girl â Â purity wrapped in cream white, ring of abstinence around your finger as you keep your head bowed in submission. youâve found freedom in the things your parents have warned you stay away from â Â in men like yuta, who hold onto god while shaking hands with the devil. you wouldnât let yourself be hurt anymore, you refused to continue to be the church girl who let everyone walk all over him. next time, youâd hurt them instead of letting yourself get hurt â youâd leave before you could get left.
you wonder if timeâs changed him. unlike you, and some of the other people in your class, he didnât opt for higher education after high school. his instagram is mostly inactive, but youâve kept up with his temporary stories, his treks through europe and his stays in asia. everywhere he goes he looks like he belongs. thereâs always someone on his arm or by his side â Â heâs got an endless supply of charm thatâs helped him on his way, heâs always been that way.
âa long time, angel,â he says.
and there it is â Â the way he looks at you while bathed in the color of lust and sin. he is temptation and you are eve, he beckons you to take a bite, and who are you to say no? itâs barely an hour before you find yourself on top of him in the backseat of his old car with his hands in your hair and his lips on your collarbones. the windows are fogged up by the heavy breaths that fall from your lips, unholy sounds filling up the empty spaces around you.
how can something so blasphemous sound so sanctifying? your name on his tongue as he fills you up, the moans drawn from the back of his throat while his hands leave your locks to roam around your body. his palms are hot against your sweat covered skin and he leaves a trail in his wake â Â like heâs drawing out a map with his fingertips, leaving his fingerprints on you. you could listen to him all day, listen to him talk about how tight you are, about how good youâre treating him, about how much heâs wanted you.
he is the prophet whoâs made you a believer, hands between your legs as your core tightens â Â oh, how he encourages you, how his lips meet yours as he fucks you while your hips buck. stars fill your vision while he fulfills his fantasy on you, thrusting up into you and gripping your hips. he calls your name just as he finishes, his strokes slowing to a stop as he pushes your hair out of your face.
a gentle kiss on both your temples, you know then how hallowed he is.
ii. he calls you the next morning from his kitchen. his parents are still asleep when his eyes open and he swears he can still smell your perfume on his skin. heâs nothing short of sacrilegious, but youâve always been holy to him. thereâs something about the way you smile when you receive good news that makes his heart flutter, and he loves the way you look over your shoulder whenever someone calls your name. for so long, heâs watched you become strong and independent while keeping his hands to himself.
divine corruptor, but he never wanted to taint you.
because he can still remember you moving in down the block â Â another girl heâll have to welcome into bible study, another kid heâll have to pretend to like because his parents are too chatty. but suddenly heâs thirteen and watching you stop a family dinner to bandage the boy across the street. the sunset hits you just right, lights up your face as you make the little boy promise to be more careful. you probably donât remember how you looked at him as you walked back up the path to his home, but he does. thirteen and looking to a god whoâs never loved him, wondering if love is real after all.
but, then heâs seventeen and you wonât meet his eyes at thanksgiving. you wonât eat the stuffing he brought, and he wonders if he said something wrong. later, his parents tell him that your entire extended family bailed and that the cousins you missed so much hadnât so much as called you. it wasnât his stuffing that had you down, it was the absence of someone who promised you theyâd be there. he left you a hand turkey on the window of your bedroom and tickets to the movie you spoke to your dad about that night â Â he had to bribe his ex - girlfriend that worked there.
and still, you never looked at him. you ignored him in the halls, chose the loudest kid in class to partner with instead of him, went to prom with one of his friends instead of even asking him. he had spent his entire teenage life watching after you with the stars in his eyes while you grew and moved on without him. even after high school, one day you were still at home, the next day your parents were at sunday service telling him about how you went to some hot shot college across the country. theyâre so proud of you, but he shares the same pain with them â Â that you all but left everyone behind. he didnât even get to say goodbye.
but years pass and suddenly youâre back in his church at the same time as him. you look as good as you always have, sundress appropriately chosen for service with your smile equipped as always â Â and even though itâs been years, his heart skips a beat. heâs distracted from the conversation his fatherâs pulled him into and heâs looking at you. you hug old neighbors and catch up with friends who never left, you ignore him as you always have until he sits next to you and heâs instantly aware of the shift in your demeanor. your postureâs a bit different and you hold your head up a little higher than usual. your hand laces with his and youâre asking him to help you get some air after he teases you.
âwhat do you want me to do, angel?â he asks you when youâre on the front steps of the church.
itâs you that initiates the kiss, who cups his cheeks and pulls him into you like youâve been waiting to do it. heâs breathless for the entire kiss and he almost loses himself when you ask him rather what he wants do instead. you tasted sacred, and the noises you made as your legs shook around his head were imprinted into his mind until you came home again. that day, you had used him to get you off and left before he could get inside of you. you had walked away and left nothing but a fantasy in his head and he had spent months with his hand wrapped around himself thinking of what wouldâve happened if you hadnât stopped him.
that yellow dress would still be bunched around your waist, heâd hold it as he watched himself disappear inside of you. your panties would be all but forgotten on the ground while he pushed you against the side of the church, he would listen to your moans, hear his name from your lips, taste all of you for the rest of the day. he always thought of you, even in another country with another girl in his arms. you deserved better than his dirty thoughts, though, he knew that. you were worth so much more than just the lust you gave him a taste of, but you came home again and you looked wicked.
it isnât the way he wanted it to happen, but it isnât as if itâd happen any other way. girls like you donât end up with boys like him â Â thatâs a truth he accepted a long time ago. but still, you answer the phone groggily and his lips spread into a smile. he listens to you complain about the time and about how he almost got you caught sneaking in last night â Â because youâre an adult , but your parents still treat you like a teenager. Â itâs such a mundane moment, watching the sun rise while listening to your giggles on the phone, but he knows heâll remember it forever.
iii. youâre wrapped up in his arms for the rest of summer. you spend nights with his hands between your legs while your mouth is wrapped around his cock. mornings are rare, but when they arrive they often come with his body against yours â skin to skin while the sunlight peeks through the curtains. itâs often you find yourself at the church with your parents, shaking hands with his father before disappearing for the service to rendezvous with the best adventure youâve ever had in your life.
he forces you to new heights, leaves your legs shaking and you gasping for air from pleasure you never knew you could feel. he is dangerous â taking you from behind as he bends you over the top balcony of the church after service, leaving a mark on your neck that wasnât there when the day started, pulling you away from old friends who definitely notice the way your cheeks get tinted when you meet eyes with him. if this was supposed to be a secret, it was a poorly hidden one â but you didnât mind.
you started counting the days before you had to leave. one more year, and you would come home. you didnât want to come home originally â you returning for the summer was just supposed to be a pit stop on your journey around the world. but he had made you stay. he had found his way into a heart you swore would always be shielded, he had held your hand while on the top of the car and asked you to stay. youâre sure that, âwe should keep doing this.â didnât really officially count as an invitation, but you had taken it as one anyway.
why hadnât you done it sooner? why had you always been so scared of the pastorâs son? if he made you feel like this now, could he have done it sooner? would high school have been different if you chose him instead of his friend, who used you on prom night and never spoke to you again? would you have chosen a school closer to home if you knew that he could make you forget all your troubles? would you have gathered the courage to meet his eyes if you knew how angelic he looked when he fell asleep with an arm wrapped around you?
âwhat are you doing?â he mumbles. he shakes you from your thoughts as you readjust your position. your head lays on his chest and you look up at him as the sheets fall around your waists, your left hand is intertwined with his right, the way his thumb brushes over yours makes your stomach erupt with softness.
âiâm just thinking,â you reply quietly. âiâve known you for more than half my life, but never like this.â
âlike what?â he meets your eyes in the growing darkness of his room. thereâs happiness in the liminal spaces like this, youâve found, in the quiet afterglow of pleasure is when youâre at your highest. ânaked?â he teases you. âintimately?â
your own smile appears on your lips widely, and you sit up to wrap the sheets around your chest. âyeah,â you nod. âand, you know, more than just â yuta my neighbor, yuta the pastorâs son, yuta who dated all the girls in my eighth grade math class.â
he sits up too, leaning against his headboard after running a hand through his hair. âis that what you thought about me?â
you thought so much more of him than heâd know. he was out of your league, and he wouldnât ever be interested in someone like you â that much, you were always so sure of. he never seemed interested when he came over, he always seemed eager to leave; you never even spoke past formalities. you thought he was the most interesting kid in your entire town of three hundred, but you were just a nobody. he was divinity and you were nothing but a follower. he was going to go off and do something so great with his life, youâre in a useless major with a useless life plan.
âno.â you shake your head this time. âi thought you were holy.â
because you couldnât ever forget how he looked sitting in the front pew like a marble statue. he was handsome, and posed against the stained glass windows he looked like one of the paintings hung up on the halls of the church. youâve never forgotten how beautiful somberness looked on him, how even when there were tears in his eyes, he still looked like he could end wars with a single glance. it was an odd situation, seeing him behind the school on graduation day with a cigarette between his fingers pretending not to cry. you wouldâve said goodbye to him then if you had had the courage, but you had spun around and left without even saying hello â something you had grown all but used to.
he snorts in response to you, shaking his head like he canât quite believe you. âyou donât know what youâre talking about.â
âbut, i do.â you scoot over until youâre close enough to straddle him, the sheets fall from around you as you climb on top of him. âi swear it on everything i have, yuta, youâre holy.â
he looks like he wants to argue, to fight against the title youâve given him but instead, he pulls you in for a kiss. itâs slow and deep, almost torturing the way he kisses you like itâll be the last time. he always kisses you like this, before he makes you cum, when he says goodbye, when he pulls you out of the crowd and into his arms. you donât know why, but you wonât ask him to stop.
he kisses you and you break away to kiss his jaw, his neck, his chest â you kiss him until your mouth is wrapped around him again. his hands are always in your hair like this, his eyes are always half shut when you swipe your tongue over the head of his member, he always looks you in the eye when you dare to look up. heâs so holy, you wished he saw it too.
iv. you break his heart on a wednesday evening. three months of this and suddenly heâs got you in the back of his car again and he accidentally tells you âi love youâ.
itâs in the heat of the moment, he confesses immediately after, but he canât lie. he loves you, and heâs never loved anyone else like this before. you are everything to him. he looks at you and still loses his breath, he still gets giddy when he sees your contact light up his phone, he canât go to bed without making sure you know heâs thinking of you. he thinks you love him too, because this isnât just friendship. what you guys have going on is so much more.
it stopped being about the sex a bit ago, when you fell asleep in his arms and he held you until you woke up. it stopped being about the sex when he knew what to get you when you got bad news without you telling him. it stopped being about the sex when no other girl in the world compared to you, when you asked him if heâd visit you over the school year and he promised to. he passed friendship the minute he learned about your weird habit of leaving flowers on the windowsill of old mrs. buchannan because she liked the color. he knew he loved you when he had to pause the movie because you cried over the death of a minor animal character. he thought you loved him when you called him holy.
but he tells you he loves you and he can hear the rose gold glass shatter.
âhey,â he says your name as you fix your skirt in silence. âhey, come on, say something.â
âyou donât mean that.â your response comes quietly.
âi donât mean what?â he pulls his pants up, fixes the buttons of his shirt. âthat i love you?â
âyou donât love me.â you open the car door and step out. âyou canât.â
heâs taken aback by your comment, very briefly fixing his hair before stepping out of his side and watching you briskly walk away in the empty parking lot of the closed down k-mart. âwhat is that supposed to mean?â
you turn around, jacket wrapped around your arms as you look everywhere but at him. âi mean what i said. you canât love me, yuta, iâm not someone youâre supposed to love.â
âthen who am i supposed to love?â he takes steps around the car toward you. âif not you, then who?â
âanybody but me,â you insist, and he canât understand why youâre pushing him away now. he canât understand. âyouâre supposed to love someone whoâll give you adventure and a lifetime of happiness. iâm just me â iâmâ iâll only leave. break your heart.â
âis there something iâm missing here?â he stands his ground even though you stray further away, one step at a time. âwhen was this decided â that youâd just leave and break my heart?â
and heâs so desperate to keep you, to hold onto you and keep you in his life. he doesnât want this, you still taking steps back away from him like heâs the demon heâs always been sure he is. youâre enveloped in the dim lights of the parking lot, the streetlights cast a halo over you as you teeter near the edge of darkness â and still, heâd fall to his knees in worship for you if it meant youâd stay.
âyouâre not supposed to love me, yuta, please,â your voice breaks, and it hits him so hard he almost stumbles back. âiâm sorry.â
you leave him in the half lit parking lot, but you donât turn around to see him sitting down on the pavement with his head in his hands. what a constant theme in his life, to find so much happiness and see it walk out of his life. he thought youâd be the one that stayed, but he can see now how unfair it is to have placed all his expectations on your shoulders. you arenât atlas, you arenât made to carry the weight of his faults and his world, thatâs his job, thatâs his duty. he shouldnât have expected you to love him the way he loves you, he shouldnât have expected anything other than another girl who wanted to burn her hand in the lust.
itâs okay, he thinks, itâll be okay. heâll be okay, he always is. but he picks himself up hours after you left and climbs into a car that still smells like the perfume you sprayed earlier when you complained about the smell of cigarettes and that pine scent you hated. he drives to the church with his windows down, speeding through the empty streets so fast he can barely breathe though the wind. he uses the back entrance of the church with tears in his eyes and falls into his place in the first pew, letting the darkness wrap around him as he leans forward and cries.
yuta doesnât pray, but he prays for you anyway.
v. you leave tomorrow, and your parents open the door to let in the nakamotos. he isnât with his parents, and you donât know if youâre more relieved or disappointed. because itâs been two weeks since he said he loves you, and itâs been two weeks since you saw a future in which he left you because you couldnât make him happy.
what was it? your own insecurities, or the constant pattern that everyone that you fell in love seemed to leave? you could dissect it all. the fact that he was out of your league, that you had spent half your life yearning over him and waiting for him to look at you as someone other than the daughter of his parentsâ friends. every girl he had ever dated was prettier, or more adventurous, or better than you in one way or another. every friend he had had more substance than you would ever muster. every story he told you reminded you that you didnât fit into his life.
and then the second point, that you had fallen in love so many times just to be left alone in the cold. you had found yourself lost in the woods so many times because of the boys you chose to love. because of that, you had mapped the forest on your own, built your own shelter, and kept yourself warm with your own fire. it was foolish of you to let the fire die out and to venture out toward his flame, it was incredibly stupid of you to fall in love with him when you had promised yourself that youâd leave before you could get left.
but dinner is so empty without him, and heâs everywhere. he haunts you in everything you do, you can see him in everyone you meet. because the truth is, the hoodie he left still smells like him even if itâs just been sitting on your desk chair and whenever you see something funny the first person you think of his him. you find him in the sunsets and the shadows in your room, you touch him in your dreams and hold him so tightly you wake up in tears. he has burrowed his way into your heart and the jokeâs on you â you ended up hurt in the long run anyway.
you say goodnight to his parents as they leave â his mom hugs you extra tight and tells you itâs from yuta.Â
âheâll miss you, sweetheart,â she says as she pulls away.
that haunts you for the rest of the night. you canât sleep, you canât form a coherent thought, and youâre walking out of the front door fiercely at two in the morning without caring about the consequences. you walk across the lawns to his house, you find his room on the ground floor and knock on the window â quietly, three times. seconds feel like hours as you wait, and for a second, you think heâs gone, but just as youâre about to sprint back home, his curtains pull apart and you see his face.
youâre helpless as the moonlight hits his face, lighting up his features. heaven lost an angel and heâs right in front of you. youâll never understand why he thinks so lowly of himself, why he canât see the wings that sprout from his back and the halo that hangs over his head. you can remember a night spent with him, listening to him tell you about his stories and his adventures. how highly he spoke of others, how he didnât speak of himself, how he only mentioned his mistakes and his flaws. you had told him how holy he was, he had denied it until his hips were between your legs and you forgot all about it.Â
he slides his window open, pushing the screen aside and leaning out. he looks like a masterpiece, painted and carved by god himself â the big man that you knew he didnât really believe in. if god was real, he gifted mankind yuta.
âi leave tomorrow,â you say.
he nods slowly. âi know.â
âi came to say goodbye.â
âokay.â he looks you in the eye. âgoodbye.â
âbye.â
not all stories have a happy ending, you know. youâre so sure that you wonât have one with him, youâre so sure that if you tell him how much you love him itâll end apocalyptically â but your heart hurts so much you canât breathe. you canât move your feet from its spot in the ground, you canât leave the way your mind is telling you to.
âplease give me time,â you mumble â you donât even know what youâre really saying. the words are coming out faster than you can stop them. âplease wait for me. i just need a little time.â
âfor what? what in the world could you possibly need time for?â he asks, stoic features finally moving; they shift into a frown, a sarcastic laugh from his lips.
âi need time to love you the way you deserve to be loved. because i do, i do love you. i love you.â itâs relieving to say, you can almost breathe again but the way he looks at you â for the first time that summer, he doesnât look at you like youâve gifted him the sun. he looks at you like youâve stolen the light, like youâre a bringer of darkness. âi just â i canât.â
âand i canât wait for you.â he shakes his head. âi canât do it.â
âplease,â you beg. you take a step toward his window as he takes a step back into his room. âplease.â
âi canât.â
tears blur your vision and you donât want to cry, you donât want him to see you sob over him. but you canât hold them back, they fall onto your cheeks as he pulls back the screen on his window â a barrier that prevents you from climbing in familiarly.Â
âi love you,â he says to you. âi meant it when i said it, i mean it now. but you need time to love me and i need time to unlove you.â youâve never seen him look so sad before, but he closes his window, then his curtains.
rightfully, he cuts you out of his life and leaves you in the darkness. you walk back home in tears, you land on your front steps in tears. some stories just donât have happy endings, some have lessons â yours: that in trying to get hurt by another person, you ended up the most hurt youâd ever been.Â
oedipus, by trying to escape your fate, youâve walked headfirst into it.
#nct-writers#neowritingsnet#nct scenarios#yuta x reader#yuta imagines#yuta#kpop imagines#nct 127#nct#nct 127 smut#mine.#anyway#i'll be back in a couple of months when i get another au in my head that i can't get rid of
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Your Name AU
(because iâve seen this movie a bajillion times and it makes me feel things and i am FEELING THINGS about zimbits rn) (It probably wonât work, but iâm gonna make it work)
 Bitty is a guy who is trying to peacefully spend his last summer before heading off to college in peace.Â
He spends his days working his part time job at his Auntâs produce stand.Â
and Baking
and playing club hockey twice a week
Fairly peaceful
and...boring as hell
Until the dreams start
Jack has just started his third year at Samwell university
heâs still broken
still anxious
still the âgolden boyâ --even if he doesnât feel like hes polished and shining
but heâs making do
and making friends
just a year or two left until
until what?
graduation? getting signed?Â
wasting away?Â
Jack doesnât know. But heâs resigned to focus on hockey and let the rest of the world pass him by
Until the dreams start
Jack wakes up and itâs too hot
He shifts to get out of bed and finds that the covers he is tearing away from his body
are not his
or Shittyâs
or any of his roommatesâ
also. uh
those skinny legs and short shorts are not his
his hands look different too
and his face feels different
and the voice that calls to him from downstairs is not one he knows
huh
well
weird dream
hope itâs over soon
Bitty goes downstairs to eat the next day
His parents are both fairly silent
âI see you got over whatever mood you were in yesterday, young manâ
âmood?â
âit doesnât matter.â
Thatâs all he gets out of them
When he drives to the produce stand his cousins run up to him smiling
âI see that you actually remembered how to drive that thingâ
âWhat?â says Bitty
âyesterday you were all over the place. almost knocked over the stand. if you were anyone else Iâd think you were drunkâ
âAunt Judy figures you might have been possessedâ the other cousin says
âWith a fit of stupidityâ
âI honestly have no idea what youâre talking aboutâ Bitty says
âIt doesnât matter. Just donât âget lostâ or forget âhow to drive stickâ again, Dickyâ she says using finger quotes
Later in the day, Suzanne asks Bitty if heâs really feeling ok.Â
She was really worried about yesterdayâs behavior
Bitty replies that , despite evidence on the contrary, he feels normal
They finish up some jars of jam and Bitty returns to his room for the night
There is where he finds it
Tucked under his pillow there is a note in scratchy handwriting
âWho are you?â
Bitty wakes up cold, in a bed that is too big for him
an alarm he doesnât remember setting, or ever having, is blaring next to him
he looks to see the time
4:30 am
oh.Â
hell no
bitty gets up to unplug the dream alarm clock, and returns to sleep
Bitty wakes up 6 hours later with another man coming into bed with him
This man is naked
and moustached
one of those dreams? huh
never would he dream about this kind of guy though
because this guy doesnât crawl into bed, like he thought
he wraps bitty in a burrito made out of comforters and yanks him onto the floor
âI know you needed to a break, but let the coaches know before you sleep through morning practice like thatâ
âpractice?â
âyeah. and youâre lucky that Iâm waking you up in time to go to your 11am.âÂ
âbut itâs summerâ
naked moustache man just looks at him and rolls his eyes
âweâll grab lunch after classâ
âWait!â
âWhatâ
â...where is my class?â
Jack wakes up the next dayÂ
and is dragged to the doctor to test for a possible concussion
âthe things you were saying and doing yesterday were crazyâ
âyou skipped morning practiceâ
âAfter class you threw down your notes and said youâd never major in Historyâ
âYou baked seven as an apology for skipping morning practiceâ
âAnd then you dropped into fetal position in afternoon practice when Ollie was about to check youâ
âAnd you took, i donât know, 7000 selfies of yourself and called yourself handsomeâ
âhave you ever taken a selfie before in your life?â
jack just shakes his head
âyeah. like i said youâre getting checked for a concussionâ
Did I hit my head? , Jack asks
âno. but it canât beâ Shitty pauses âIt wouldnât be your other thing would it?â
I donât think so he says.Â
Jack has never really had memory problems. and his anxiety and panic never particularly affected him in the way described
faintly, he recalls a young boy at one of his games right before the draft, voice broken as he says âJack, donât you remember me?â
it leaves his mind as quickly as it entered
because he had bigger problems to figure out
namely how he had new entries on the journal on his phone
it was a summary of all of the things that âJackâ did the previous day
âThanks for a long day of being a Big Shot on campus, handsome!â
signed Eric
Eric??Â
Who the hell is Eric?Â
it happens againÂ
Jack spends a day as bitty
and Bitty spends a day as Jack
and they wake up not remembering too much about what happens
the only thing that cements that itâs not just a weird dream is that
well...real life consequences
Jack becomes a lot more...spinny and less up for contact when he plays hockey
and ends up enjoying time with his teammates a lot more
and has a huge country dialect now
and one time someone came up to him speaking french and jack had no idea what was going on???
and he smiles sometimes???Â
and at the end of the day heâs almost always on his phone typing away
Bitty is able to kick ass into gear with hockey
but canât bake worth shit
honestly, suzanne hasnât seen anything of that quality since bitty was seven
AND he had to check a recipe
also, heâs started to bike to work
driving stick is impossible
heâs very serious on some days
he spends his evenings watching history documentaries and writing in a journal
Well. It seems like this is just gonna be life for a while, they both figure
best set up some rules
Bitty, as Jack, is NOT ALLOWED TO DITCH CLASSES
no use of the word yâall
no beyonce
no short shorts
donât drop like a brick when someone comes to check you
seriously Eric itâs fineÂ
Eric itâs my body that would get hurt donât worry
also please donât drink or use drugs in my body
itâs a long story but again
itâs my body
Jack-as-Bitty is asked to be polite to his friends and customers
and please never bake anything ever
donât leave the house dressed like some weird clothing outlet exploded
if you yell at my teammates i swear to god, mr. zimmermann.Â
donât disrespect senor bun
or anyone
stop frowning so much, even Coach has asked me about it and i donât know what to say
donât watch stuff on my netflix account. your history documentaries are messing up my recommendations
Despite the rules
They find ways to keep bothering each other
But also trying to make each other better
As captains of each others teams, both teams are able to benefit from their guidance
Bittyâs team gets a lot stronger technically
but kind of hate how much of a hardass Bitty is 3 times a week
The SMH is more in synch with each other than ever
and Bitty is able to help out a lot more
But Jack ends up having to put a lot of money in the sin bin forÂ
âacting offâ
Jack is very upset to find a picture of himself in the swallow, sitting on the roof of the Haus shirtless and wearing short shorts chilling
like
what the fuck EricÂ
But they get a little routine down, and nothing changes except for minor nuisances
so whateverÂ
It all works good until one day, while Jack and Suzanne are bonding over making jam, Suzanne looks Jack right in the eyes and saysÂ
âoh...youâre not my dicky. youâre dreaming arenât you?â
Jack snaps awake in his bed
not Ericâs bed. His bed
Huh. weird.Â
He goes to check his phone and of course, there is a long journal entry left over from the day he didnât get
Itâs all mostly ok until he gets to the end
âIt looks like your first big hockey game is tomorrow night! Be sure to have fun. Enjoy it!â
âThereâs a comet tonight for me. Iâll take lots of pictures so that you can see it next time we ...do whatever we doâ
 Jack and the SMH win the game. and he actually tries to have fun. but the only person he wants to celebrate with is
well
heâs in georgia
bUT
Jack has a phone
He dials bittyâs cellphone number that has been saved in his contact
his heart is beating quite fast.Â
and then he hearsÂ
âWeâre sorry. The number you have dialed is no longer in serviceâ
 Jack stops switching after that
He should be relieved. overjoyed
but heâs not
he doesnât miss the humidity
or the dirt roads
or the bugs
but he does miss something
and heâs forgetting all about it
so he tries searching online for the town
the town he canât remember the name of
he doesnât want to forget, so he starts drawing sketches of what he remembers
theyâre not bad
pretty darn good, even
Not as good as Lardoâs, but sheâs still abroad
He tries to call Ericâs number a couple more times. He gets the same results
 Jack canât take it anymore
During the winter break, Jack flies down to Georgia for a weekend, rents a car, and drives himself in the general area he remembers the town
he stops locals and shows them sketches
âis there any town nearby that looks like this?â
they all respond in the negative
he does this for hours
the sun is starting to set when he resigns to give up
he pulls into a diner in the town heâs in, orders, and looks at his sketches again
maybe itâs possible that the town isnât...even real?
it really could have just been his dreams
that is what he thinks when the server returns with some water
âHey. thatâs a pretty good picture of Godfreyâ
 âGodfrey?â
âYeah. I grew up there.â he says looking a bit sad
âCan you tell me how to get there?âÂ
The server pauses and gives Jack a mourned, but puzzled look â it was about a 15 minute drive from here but-âÂ
âit was?â
âyou didnât hear about what happened?â
Jack shakes his head.Â
âIf you donât mind,Iâll take you to it after you finish your dinnerâ
Itâs all gone.Â
Oh God.Â
Everything from the small ice cream shop to the old creek where Bittyâs cousins would hang around
Itâs all rubble
and mounds of dirt
Literal miles
Jack canât breathe
he canât
breathe
just breathe
just
breat--
#au#a shitty au#omgcp#check please#it's really nothing like the story except for the couple of major plot points#because honestly how could i bring in ancient forgotten japanese concepts into an american context#fic#wipitgood
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We Are Not Broken
The Session
Dr. Flemmings cleared his throat. âNow that all of you are here, letâs begin. The first thing I want you all to do is tell everyone what happened to you. Itâs okay that you are here and you all have had similar experiences. This is a LGBTQ+ safe zone, so donât be afraid. Who wants to start?â
Everyone looked at each other, none wanting to go first. After a few seconds of awkward silence, Logan took a deep breath, âI was kidnapped and tortured because of my gender and sexuality, along with Roman and Remus,â the twins both flinched at the statement, remembering all too well what had happened and what they had all been through together, âI have scars all over my body from the various weapons and beatings. It was hell, we were all malnourished and suffering, and I remember having to watch our kidnappers beat the everloving, pardon my language, f*ck out of Roman and Remus, I donât remember the times I was beaten all too well, but it was all because some people thought not being cishet was a crime, found the twins and then found me.â
Dr. Flemmings nodded, âUse whatever language you need to, Loganâ
âDoes Spanish count?â Roman piped up, both twins were multilingual, both parents being native spanish speakers, their father from Spain and their mother from Mexico, in high school Roman took French and Remus took German and begrudgingly, at their parents request, taught each other and had become proficient in both languages. Sometimes the twins talked to each other in a strange mix of English, Spanish, French, and German, something they called Enspanchan.
âPreferably a language we all can understand, Romanâ
Roman slumped a little, âAy, lo sientoâ he said under his breath.
âLogan, do you have anything else to say?â Dr. Flemmings asked.
Logan shook his head and fidgeted with his hands, he had never been good at processing strong emotions, he usually distracted himself by researching and educating himself on random topics, incorporating them into his Sign Language lectures at the school he worked at.
âUh well, I guess itâs my turn,â Patton said, interrupting Loganâs train of thought, âI was taking a walk, and some guy noticed the strap to my binder and commented on it. I didnât think much of it, I ignored him and kept walking, but then he grabbed me and started calling me⊠horrible things and he dragged me into the nearby woods andâŠâ Patton took in a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, âHe took off all my clothes and destroyed my binder. He told me Iâd be beautiful if I didnât try so hard to be a man. He called me an âexotic beautyâ and kept asking me what kind of asian I am. And then he started touching me andâŠâ Patton started full fledged crying, not wanting to say it. He got quieter and almost whispered, âHe r*ped me⊠And now Iâm pregnant.â
Everyone was silent for a few long seconds, Virgil finally broke the silence âThatâs⊠horrible. What are you going to do with the baby? If you donât mind me asking.â
Patton took another deep breath and said âIâm probably going to put them up for adoption. Someone out there probably really wants a baby and canât have one themselves. Iâm not saying everyone should do that, though, I mean everyoneâs different.â
Dr. Flemmings took note of how much Patton was crying, âYou feel broken, donât you?â
âI feel broken, violated, I wish time would just stop for at least a little while. I wish I could turn back the clock to last month and tell myself to not go on a walk that day, but I know I canât. I feel like Iâm not trans enough, like maybe Iâm not actually a man.â
Virgil looked at Patton, âBullsh*t. Youâre trans enough. You are just as manly as you need to be. Youâre f*cking valid.â He clapped for emphasis. This was unusual behavior for him, as he didnât like to have attention drawn to himself, but he hated it when other trans people didnât feel valid, mainly because he knew how it felt.
âWell, kiddo, I donât know about all that, just look at meâ
âYou. Are. A. Man. And. Thatâs. What. Matters.â
âFine, you winâ
During this exchange, Janus had been writing out their story and held up their hand in a sort of âStop dooting your horns, you middle school band classâ gesture. Everyone looked at them, they just seemed to have that presence, the type that made people shut up and pay attention without really trying. Janus passed around the notepad, which said: After a concert, a lady came up to me, nothing new there, and was haggling me about being nonbinary and how Iâm just a âbroken manâ and then all of a sudden, I donât really remember this well, I felt something swipe across my throat and there was a strange warm liquid coming from my neck and then it started to hurt. The next thing I knew, there was yelling and I was on the ground with my friend Ethan, heâs the drummer, Hel, pressing down on my neck. Lola, our bassit, Truth, was calling 911. I think I passed out, and when I woke up in the hospital, I was very confused. I was on so many painkillers that I was basically high out of my mind and the most important thing to me at that moment, for some reason, was chocolate chip cookies. I specifically remember being distraught that no one would bring me cookies because I couldnât communicate that I wanted some. Anyways, thatâs not important. This person probably ended my career, the one thing I actually wanted to do with my life, and I donât know what to do about it. I might never be able to talk, let alone perform, ever again. Also some dumb*ss took a video of it and put it on YouTube and so the whole world knew before I had even arrived at the hospital.
Once everyone had read what was on the notepad, they all stared at Janus. They looked down at their legs. After a moment, Patton got up and walked over to Janus and touched their shoulder. âWhat else do you like to do?â he asked.
Janus shrugged.
Virgil suddenly blurted out, remembering the chaos after that concert a few weeks ago, âWait someone put that on YouTube? How has that not been taken down?â
Janus shrugged, not knowing why either, and pulled out their phone. They found the video and played it, looking away. Patton and Virgil looked away from the video, while Logan and the twins watched, all three feeling bad that they couldnât seem to pull away from the chaos happening on screen, like some sort of morbid scene in a TV show.
When the video finished, Logan, Roman, and Remus were in stunned silence while Janus fumbled to keep the next video from playing, the âWhatâs in your pants?â meme, which was when one time Janus and the rest of Duality were on a talk show, all in costume, and the host asked Janus the dreaded question, âWhatâs in your pants?â and Janus had immediately responded by pulling things out of their pockets and listing them, the items getting more obscure as they went âPhone, wallet, keys, worm-on-a-string, tiny rainbow plastic babies, a dead mouse, Quetzalcoatl? [Quetzalcoatl is Janusâs pet hognose snake], and a barbie head.â the clip had spread like wildfire and had become a large part of what Janusâs stage persona, Deceit, had been known for. Everyone in the band had their own costume, usually involving half of the face being different from the other, Janusâs Deceit costume had a Jack the Ripper vibe and they had makeup to look like scales on the left side of their face. Ethanâs Hel was an all black suit and the left half of his body was made to look like dead, rotting flesh. Lolaâs Truth had a black and white lace dress and her makeup was meant to make her look inhuman and had several extra eyes on the right side of her face. The final member, Toriâs Valhalla looked like a norse warrior, the right side of their face looked scarred and they wore an eyepatch over their right eye, like Odin.
âThat kind of reminds me of what happened to me,â Virgil said with a shudder once the video was over. âI was hanging out with my friend, May, after your,â Virgil pointed at Janus, âconcert and ended up crashing at her place. I tend to sleep pretty heavily, so I was surprised when I woke up on the autopsy table for the mortuary science program at the college I used to go to. I had barely woken up before I felt something that felt like a punch in my abdomen. I saw May, she had a knife and looked angry, she stabbed me four more times, repeatedly calling me a dirty tr*nny. I donât think she realized I was awake. Thing is, she was the one who supported me the most during my transition and always had my back when I had first come out. Thatâs what hurt the most. She had apparently secretly hated me all these years and just now was releasing all that. I didnât dare move until she had left and I started to crawl towards the desk phone at the professor's desk. I was almost there when I passed out. I woke up again to the professor shaking me, heâd always liked me and was concerned about me. He told me he had called 911 and shortly after I was hauled into an ambulance and carted away to the hospital, swimming in and out of consciousness. I think May was planning on killing me and having me be found dead on the autopsy table as a morbid surprise for the mortuary science teacher and his first period class of that day.â He was trying to control his breathing and he felt his heart rate speeding up. Virgil hoped that no one would notice and call him out on it.
Janus started writing and then showed Virgil: Was May at the concert too?
âYeah why?â Breath, dammit, breath. Virgil chided himself
Janus scrunched their eyebrows and started writing again: What does she look like?
âDo you think-â Virgil cut himself off, took in a deep breath, and found a picture of May on his phone. She had a black bob with straight bangs and wore dark makeup.
Janus looked at the picture, Thatâs her, they wrote. One thing I didnât mention before was that she had gotten away.
Suddenly Remus started talking âIâd stim and theyâd hurt me.â Roman looked at his brother, remembering how Remus would make weird sounds, start shaking his leg, or drumming his fingers on whatever surface he could get to, and after a while their kidnappers had realized that Remusâs fidgeting and sounds were him stimming, one of his ways to try and calm himself down, started beating him more when he did. âAnd it started happening more and more because I was more stressed and then I had to force myself to not and I had so much pent up, that everything was a million times louder, even the smallest touches were too much, and my head felt so light and it was like I was feeling everything and nothing all at once, like I was both on fire and numb and I donât know how to describe it.â Even now, Remus was trying to keep himself from stimming, he had his hands firmly grasped together and his legs were crossed unnaturally tight and he was visibly getting upset.
This was the first time Roman had even heard Remus talk about it. He hadnât realized how much Remus had suffered and how different it was from how Logan and Roman had suffered. No wonder he was so despondent. He was overloaded in every way. Roman noticed how tight Remus was wound up and pulled something out of his pocket, a long, green silicone fidget toy that had small bumps on it for texture. âHey,â Roman addressed his brother and handed him the fidget toy, âbreath.â Remus took it and fidgeted, reminding himself that it was safe to stim now. âYou never said how bad it was for you.â Roman said quietly.
Remus nodded, âI didnât know how to say it.â He had nothing else to say.
Roman looked around after a long moment of silence. âI felt powerless. Iâm almost always able to help, but I couldn't do anything. It was so awful only being able to watch, almost worse than getting beat regularly.â Roman fell silent again, not knowing what else to say.
âYou feel like you have to be the hero, donât you? You feel obligated to do it?â Dr. Flemmings asked. Roman thought for a moment and then nodded. âSince weâre coming to a close, I want to tell you all that you all did a good job today. Hereâs what I want you all to do: Patton, read Galileo by Pual Tran, I think youâd benefit from it. Janus, I want you to write, I donât care what you write, whether it be a song, a poem, a backtrack, whatever, as long as you express yourself with it. Virgil, I want you to use methods to regulate your breathing like the 4, 7, 8 technique and I want you to try carrying around a stress ball, same goes for you, Remus. Logan, I want you to express yourself more and come up with a way for you to get your feelings out in a safe manner. Roman, I want you to think about why you feel obligated to be the hero. And lastly I think you all can benefit from each other, as you have all had similar experiences. Thank you all for attending.â
Everyone started saying their goodbyes and started leaving. Janus met up with an older guy in the lobby who nudged them and said âHappy birthday, kid.â The older guy looked a little sad, like he was remembering something tragic. Everyone heard him wish Janus a happy birthday and started wishing them a happy birthday as well.
Patton looked at the guy and said âIs this your dad, Janus?â
Janus shook their head no and at the same time the guy said âIâm their brother. John, by the way.â
âYou guys are siblings? Wow! I never would have guessed!â
Janus looked slightly embarrassed, everyone always confused John for their dad, which wasnât too far off as John and his wife had raised them. âYeah the twenty-one year age gap doesnât help,â John said, lowering his gaze somewhat, just wanting Patton to change the subject.
Janus broke off from John for a moment, wrote something down and handed it to Patton. It said: Heâs a little sensitive about family history. Mom died while having me and we donât know who my dad is, so he had to raise me. Thatâs why he looks a little sad today.
Pattonâs mouth formed a silent âOâ as he slipped the paper into his pocket and waved goodbye âHave a nice day!â
John looked at his sibling, âWhat did that say?â
I said you were having a bad day.
âOh, okayâ he believed the white lie.
Logan was on the phone âI know dad, youâve told me the story every year for as long as I can remember. Iâm about to get in the car, so Iâll call you backâ
John looked at Logan and whispered to Janus âWhat are their pronouns?â
He/him Janus wrote
âHe looks and sounds a lot like the doctor who delivered you.â
Janus shrugged and started walking towards their car, a black Jeep, and got in, deciding to go to the cafe that John worked at, knowing that John had to go to work, and besides, they were hungry.
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Even Heroes Have the Right to Dream: Chapter 3
Heâs a hero, a lover, a prince. Sheâs not there.
First, Previous, Next. Ao3.
Story under read-more.
Marinette has to admit that she is a little nervous to be sharing an apartment with a boy. Sheâs been sharing with Adrien, of course, but Adrien is her boyfriend. Jon is a stranger. But, meeting him, Marinetteâs fears calm a lot.
Jon is big enough to hurt her if he wants, and would take all of Marinetteâs skill and training to fight just for his size and strength advantage, but heâs so gentle and earnest that Marinette is convinced startlingly fast that she neednât be on such guard around him.
She notices, as they ease into a routine on their first week living together, how heâs always careful to give her space, as if heâs afraid of crowding her with his height over her. He never intrudes in her room, either. In fact, the only time he even steps foot inside is when Marinette grabs his arm and drags him in to get his help in hanging up some fairy lights she needs higher on the wall than she can safely reach. (She gets most of it done herself. Over her desk and bed, she just stands on those to give her the height, but one wall doesnât have any convenient furniture under it.)
Jon is a remarkably great roommate, actually, whom Marinette counts herself lucky to be stuck with. Heâs friendly and invites her out with him when heâs going to do fun things and heâs always willing to talk and listen if she wants to, and he cleans up after himself and stays out of her business for the most part, which Marinette appreciates. They go for coffee a few times in the mornings leading up to their semesters starting, taking advantage of the time to get to know each other before theyâre swamped with work, but most of their days are spent either exploring their respective colleges, exploring the city (which they do together once or twice), or at their desks preparing for the semester ahead. By the time classes do start, Marinette considers him a friend.
Adrien isnât too happy about her rooming with a guy, which Marinette understands, but she tries to assuage his concerns. âItâs fine, Adrien. Jon is very considerate. You donât have to worry about him. Besides, I always have Tikki.â
Adrien pouts at the screen. âI know you can handle yourself, my lady. I just donât like the idea of some strange guy living with you.â
Marinette rolls her eyes. âYou donât know him.â
âNeither do you. Youâve only known each other for a week!â
âAnd he hasnât given me any reason not to trust him.â Marinette says. âOf course, Iâm cautious, but I wonât assume the worst about him when he hasnât shown any sign of deserving it. Just relax.â
Adrien sighs. âIâm trying. I just⊠I worry about you. Are you sure youâre doing okay?â
âIâm doing great. Thereâs nothing to worry about.â
His eyes flicker downwards. âIf you say so. I miss you.â
âI miss you too, chaton.â
Adrien is quiet for a while, and ultimately breaks the silence by asking, âSo, howâre your classes?â
Marinette smiles. âNot quite what I was expecting.â She admits. âBut interesting!â As she talks about her classes, Adrien listens attentively, looking just below the camera (at her image) with the same look she always sees on him. That love for her that makes her heart flutter.
Itâs not quite the same when she knows heâs an ocean away. It doesnât make her heart flutter. It makes it hurt.
But she doesnât regret her decision. She canât. University is more than she can imagine, and sheâs only just starting! Already sheâs learning things sheâs never even thought about, and itâs still hard to fight the itch to go out and patrol the streets, but she takes solace in the comforting notion that itâs not her responsibility anymore. Sheâs not a hero. Besides, while classes are manageable now, sheâll be thankful for the extra time when things really get into full swing. Already sheâs planning out her time carefully and doing everything she can to stay on top of her work.
She wonât go back to clumsy, overworked, stressed-out, hot mess Marinette. This is a new chapter in her life, and sheâll take full advantage of the ability to get a head start on organizing it.
The first day of classes, as soon as she gets to the apartment, she copies down all the dates in her syllabi to her schedule, on a calendar directly over her desk where she canât miss it if she tries. And every day after class, she writes all her smaller assignments and readings on a whiteboard in the same place over her desk, which she can plan her time around to tackle one at a time without overworking herself.
(When she mentions this strategy to Jon, he slaps a hand to his face and exclaims, âWhy didnât I think of that?â Marinette laughs at him and is flattered when he mentions a few days later that he got a similar set-up for himself, thanking her for âsaving his life.â)
âShoes, Jon!â
Jon freezes in the doorway, groaning as he looks down at his feet. âSorry, Marinette.â
âWe have a shoe closet for a reason, you know.â
âThatâs a broom closet!â He protests, already on his way back to change his shoes.
âOur shoes are in there!â Marinette calls down the hall to him. âSo, itâs a shoe closet!â
âThe broom is in there, too!â
âI didnât buy you indoor shoes for you to sass me, mister! Youâre just tracking dirt all over the place, and youâre going to have to clean it up!â
âThen Iâll clean it! You know I donât mind cleaning duty!â
As Jon reemerges into the living room, Marinette says, âAnd thatâs fine, so long as I donât have to use the floor before you get to it and get my fabrics all filthy. Again.â
âI said I was sorry.â Jon whines. He makes a cute pouty face for a moment before his attention turns to what sheâs doing. âWhatâs for dinner?â
âSpaghetti.â Marinette says. âCan you take over? I really want to go over my essay one more time.â
Jon adjusts his glasses and carefully examines the pots on the stove. âWhich you can do in the⊠ten minutes itâll take to finish this?â
âEvery minute counts! Iâm also working on a new design, so I want as much time as possible tonight to finish it up. Plus, I have to call Adrien before it gets too late. Itâs already getting late in Paris.â
Jon chuckles. âSure, sure. Go do your thing. Iâll finish up dinner.â
âThanks! Youâre the best.â Marinette hands off her spoon to him and dances around him to get to her room. âCall me when itâs ready!â
âI will. This ainât my first rodeo.â
Marinette sticks her tongue out at him when he shakes his head at her, and then she hurries off to her room. Her essay isnât due for another week, which is why she takes the time to start dinner in the first place, but she has a presentation to prepare thatâs also due next week, so she wants to get this essay done tonight so that she only has to worry about the one thing.
And while Marinette may be fluent in English â her parents taught her English as well as French growing up, a useful thing to know while in a store in a place with so many tourists â Sheâs still much less confident in it than in her French. She has to go over her essays very carefully for grammar, and then she takes full advantage of the writing center and the tutors there who will go over it with her. Sheâs taking this essay in tomorrow, and then will use the weekend to perfect it with her tutorâs recommendations as well as get her presentation into a better place.
Itâs a lot, but sheâs on top of it for now and sheâs going to use everything at her disposal, including Jon so long as it doesnât hinder him, to stay on top of it. Every minute counts, and this essay needs to be ready to turn into the writing center tonight.
Sheâs, predictably, still on the phone with Adrien (and multitasking, reviewing her essay at the same time) when Jon knocks on her door and calls her to dinner, and then she runs out to grab a plate and asks, âDo you mind?â as she tentatively steps back towards her room. She can talk with Adrien and eat and then do all her work right after dinner.
Jon chuckles and shakes his head. âGo talk to your boyfriend.â
Marinette is frustrated. Who in their right mind decides that three classes are allowed to have their tests on the same day? Why is Marinette taking three classes in one day in the first place? I should have done two and two like a sensible person. She grumbles to herself. Of course, her lab also has a test, so her other day still has two tests at once. Which is, quite frankly, utterly ridiculous.
Itâs not like she isnât prepared for them. Sheâs known these tests are coming since the start of the semester and has been preparing accordingly. Sheâs as ready as she can be, and she worries cramming now wonât do anything for her at all. Even still, itâs three tests to worry about tomorrow. So, sheâll review her notes one more time before bed, but before that, sheâs going to stress-sew.
Stress-relief will probably help a lot more than a few hours extra studying at this point.
Vrrrr. Vrrrr. Thunk.
The sewing machine is familiar and calming and it helps her get her thoughts in order.
Vrrrr. Vrrrr. Thunk.
Repetitive and mindless. She can do this in her sleep. And she knows all the material, she can take the test in her sleep! Right? Right. Definitely.
Bum-bum-bum.
Marinette raises her head to the door of her room. She carefully stops the machine and goes to answer it.
And there is Jon, glasses askew and hair a mess, rubbing the bags under his eyes. He peers over her shoulder at the machine not far from them. âHey.â He says. âIs that, uh, urgent?â
Marinette glances back to her project. âNo. Itâs just a thing Iâm working on for myself. Why? Is the machine too loud?â
He slowly nods. âSorry. Could you put it off until tomorrow or something? Iâm- you know. Cramming.â
âOf course. No problem. Sorry for bothering you.â
He yawns. âNo worries. Thanks. I should get back to studying.â
Marinette watches as he zombie-walks back to his room, shutting the door behind him. Frowning, Marinette wonders how she can help him. Sewing calms her, but her machine is bothering him, so she has to find something else. She can just leave him alone. Study herself or find a book to read so sheâs in silence and not making any noise that can disturb him. Thatâs probably what he wants her to do, butâŠ
Marinette puts her project away, takes out her own notes, and then tip-toes out of her room. Mid-terms are tough, no doubt about it, but if thereâs one thing she knows from being Ladybug itâs that when the going gets tough, keeping her cool is what will lead her to victory.
So, she makes tea. Itâs not much, but itâs what she can do for him, and for herself, right now. She pours him a cup and carefully knocks on his door. âJon?â
âCome in.â She hears, weakly.
She enters, frowns at how the lights are off even as he stares at his laptop screen, and places the cup of tea on his desk next to him. âYouâve been studying all semester.â She says. âYouâve got this.â
Jon slowly reaches out, takes a sip of the tea, and sighs. âThanks, Marinette.â
âAlso, donât study with your lights off. Itâs bad for your eyes, and itâll only make you tired and you wonât retain as much.â
He chuckles. âHit the lights for me?â
âYeah.â She pats his shoulder once before turning away. âGood luck, Jon.â
âYou too.â
As she exits the room, she flicks his light switch, flooding the room with light. That alone perks Jon up even more. Marinette rolls her eyes as she closes the door behind her.
As for herself, she grabs her own cup of tea and settles down with her own notes. Maybe sheâll get an early night, if this doesnât take too long. Itâll be good for her, anyway.
Marinette expects the party she walks into when she returns to Paris. With her family and friends, itâd be silly to expect anything else. But the fanfare dies quickly enough. After they drag her around for a while and waste the whole day away spending time with each other.
Adrien is a strange mix of ecstatic and subdued. Marinette suspects the latter is because he can tell what sheâs thinking, even as she figures it out herself, but heâs still overjoyed to see her and he sweeps her up into his arms like he hasnât been able to for months. (Because he hasnât.)
And when the day drifts into its close, itâs odd, living in her old bedroom again. It isnât just her time at University since sheâs lived in the bakery, after all, but also her time living with Adrien, so itâs strange to be in this room again.
Adrien is still with her for now, standing in her old bedroom feeling two years too old for it, because he wants to be with her as much as he can and she wants to spend the break with her parents.
âI always loved this room.â Adrien says suddenly. âItâs so you. And look!â He rushes over to her bed, scaling the stairs up to it to poke at the latch above it. âYour balcony! Remember all the nights weâd spend up there?â
Marinette smiles. She remembers. All the nights Chat Noir would drop by her balcony. How theyâd talk and talk late into the night about everything and nothing, before and after the reveal of their identities. How many hours have we spent up there? She follows him up, taking his hand when he offers it to pull her through the skylight onto the balcony proper.
Itâs just like she remembers it. A little barren, maybe, with not quite so many plants out here to keep them company, but her old lounge chair and sunshade are still out here. It makes her feel nostalgic.
âI should go patrol.â Adrien says looking out over the city. âDo you⊠want to join me, my lady? For old timeâs sake? Paris misses you.â He leaves the âI miss youâ out for her sake, but Marinette hears it.
She shakes her head. âIâm not a hero anymore, Adrien.â
Adrien swallows thickly. âRight. Iâll⊠I guess Iâll see you soon, then.â
Marinette searches in Adrienâs eyes for answers to a question she doesnât want to ask. âSee you soon.â
He looks away. âPlagg. Transform me.â He turns, readying himself to leap to another roof, but looks back.
Itâs strange, when he looks back. It makes Marinette feel out of place. Like sheâs not where sheâs supposed to be and heâs surprised to see her there instead of at his side. It makes something inside of Marinette twist painfully, but she ignores it for now. Itâs probably nothing. Sheâs just not used to staying behind yet.
Marinette takes for granted the normal things in her life. She shouldnât, considering how abnormal her life is, but she does. Things like cooking dinner for two knowing someone else will be home by the time itâs done, or petty disagreements over inside shoes that never heat up to the point of actual argument, or work catching up with her despite her efforts to stay on top of it and working late into the night to get everything done.
Adrien never stops asking her if she wants to go on patrol, and every time he leaves without her, she feels more and more alone. During the day, Alya badgers her about Ladybug, too. And she doesnât mind it. She understands where theyâre coming from. She just⊠misses when superheroes and crime fighting wasnât a thing she had to worry about. Even if it only lasted for a couple months.
âWhatâs troubling you, Master?â
Marinette closes her eyes and sighs at the floor at Wayzzâs question. âNothing.â She says. âItâs almost Christmas! Are you all excited?â
The kwami all chirp happily and voice their excitement and Marinette uses that to derail their concern. The way Wayzz and Tikki look at each other, though⊠Marinette knows this isnât the end of it.
Christmas comes and goes. Itâs a lovely affair. Marinette goes to Alyaâs holiday party, and then spends Christmas day with her family, Adrien included. (Heâs been part of the family since his dad was arrested for being Hawk Moth.) Itâs a day of warmth and cheer, and Marinette kisses Adrien under the mistletoe, and then Chat Noir leaves to sing carols on rooftops, and Marinette wonders⊠she wonders where normal went.
She feels selfish. Mean and cruel and selfish, because she doesnât hate this. Itâs fine. Sheâs okay with Adrien leaving every night to be a hero, despite how lonely it makes her feel. Sheâs content with her responsibility of taking care of the kwami. But she isnât happy. It hurts, that sheâs not happy. But on some level, it feels like sheâs still expected to be Ladybug. Every time Adrien asks her if she wants to suit up, every time Wayzz calls her âMaster,â every time Alya shows her the pictures she takes of Adrien late at night, itâs like theyâre quietly egging her on, nagging her, asking why she isnât doing what sheâs supposed to. Asking where she went.
Itâs uncomfortable, and even though she has a lot of fun being back home with her family and friends, it pervades everything in Paris. Itâs as if the city itself is crying out to her to come back to them.
In some cases, it literally is doing that.
Alya has more tact than to post such an article, but other news sites, ones who donât know who Ladybug is or her reason for leaving, still ask what happened to Parisâ heroine. Adrien still dodges questions about it, still never giving a firm answer on whether sheâll come back or not. Marinette thinks he doesnât want to say that she wonât, because heâs still hoping that she will.
âHow could she just abandon us like this?â People ask. âSheâs supposed to be our hero.â They say.
Itâs too late for that. Marinette canât turn back now. Not after she got her one sweet taste of normal. Besides, she still has the rest of her University life ahead of her. Itâs only been one semester. She canât come back now even if she wants to.
But how can she turn her back on this?
Itâs a few days before she leaves that she makes her decision. âMarinette.â Tikki says softly. âYouâve been quiet all break. Whatâs going on?â
Marinette sighs. She doesnât want to say. She wants to deny that anything at all is wrong. But sheâd be lying. She made a promise to Adrien to be happy, and if she lies now⊠Marinette resigns herself to the inevitable. Itâs better to do it now than later. Rip off the band-aid, so to speak. âI went to America because I wanted to start over, Tikki. To start⊠normal. Because being here, where being Ladybug is so important â not just to me but to everyone. Adrien, Alya, all of you kwami, it⊠I feel trapped here. And Paris is⊠theyâre mad at me, Tikki. For leaving. Theyâre mad at me because I did something that made me happy! I just- Iâm mad at them! And IâŠâ She sighs again, shaking her head. Itâs not worth getting angry over. âI donât want to stay here, but⊠I donât want to say goodbye.â
âMarinette, youâre the guardian of the Miracle Box. You have t-â
âI know! I know I have responsibilities! I donât want them! Iâm not trying to slack off or shirk my work, I just⊠university isnât easy, Tikki.â
âI know.â Tikki laughs lightly. âI saw.â
âItâs not easy, but itâs normal. It makes me feel like Iâm doing something worthwhile for me. Itâs a lot of work, but it makes me better. It makes me happy. Being Ladybug, being a hero, itâs a lot of work, too, but it makes me feel⊠empty. Am⊠Am I a bad person for not wanting to do that?â
âOf course, youâre not a bad person, Marinette! Youâre the best person I know!â
ââŠEven if Iâm not Ladybug?â
âYou donât need powers to be good, Marinette.â Tikki pauses for a long time, looking away and, perhaps, a bit ashamed. âIâm sorry if we put too much on you. Iâm proud of you for doing what makes you happy. You know all I want is for you to be happy. If that means you have to be normal, then thatâs okay.â
Marinette sniffs and reaches out to hug Tikki. âThank you. You have no idea how much that means to me.â
She tries and tries to think of how sheâll tell Adrien, but all she does is make herself cry. And she keeps crying until Adrien finally gets back from patrol.
âMarinette!â Heâs startled, confused, scared, because his girlfriend is crying, and he doesnât know whatâs wrong. He reaches out to comfort her, but Marinette weakly pushes him away.
She canât summon words for a long while. All she can do is stare pitifully at his concern, that love and worry that shows her so clearly how he feels about her. And ironically, despite how much he loves her, and how much she loves him, thatâs exactly why she needs to do this. Because they have to be honest with each other, and Marinette needs to honor the promise she made to honor that love. She canât draw this out any longer than she already has, even if she desperately doesnât want to let go. âIâm sorry, Adrien.â She finally says. âIâm trying, I really am. But I canât⊠I canât do this. I⊠Iâm just starting to understand what normal is, and I canât⊠every time you leave, I feel this obligation and hate and hurt and I⊠I canât.â
Adrien sits back on the bed, struck more painfully than he ever has been before in costume. ââŠAre you breaking up with me?â
Marinette nods. âIâm sorry.â She says. âYouâre a hero. Youâre a wonderful person, and I love you so much, but I just⊠I canât do this. I canât be happy this way, soâŠâ
Marinette can hear a long, shaky sigh. âI understand, my lady. We both kind of knew this was coming, didnât we?â
âYeah. I guess we did. Youâre a hero. Iâm not. We worked great when we were fighting together, but now that thereâs no bad guyâŠâ
âYouâve been quiet.â Adrien says. âAnd Iâve been spending more time out, away from you. And you going to America makes it even harder.â
âThat time of our lives is over.â Marinette summarizes. âEverything that brought us together in the first place is over.â
âYeah.â Adrien frowns. âI guess we⊠outgrew each other.â
ââŠEach other?â
Adrien flinches. âI love you so much, Marinette. You know that. But⊠I know what you mean. To me, we were Ladybug and Chat Noir. Even as Marinette and Adrien, we were the hero duo. If weâre not heroes anymore, or worse, if only one of us is, then what are we? Youâre always going to be my hero, and Iâll always love you, but⊠youïżœïżœïżœre right. Itâs not the same.â
Marinette screws her eyes shut, trying in vain not to cry. âI think I saw it the same way. Youâre a hero. Youâll always be Chat Noir. And while I still liked being Ladybug, we made sense. NowâŠâ
âNow we donât.â Adrien says, voice fragile and quivering. âEven if it hurts.â
ââŠYeah.â
âDo you think we can still be friends?â
âI think itâll hurt.â Marinette says. âBut I think we can if we try.â
âItâs worth it.â Adrien says. âHowever much it hurts, itâll be worth it.â
Marinette giggles softly. âAgreed. So⊠friends?â
Adrien smiles back at her, weak and struggling but a smile, sincere, nonetheless. âFriends. Forever.â
âFriends forever.â Marinette echoes.
Marinette throws her bags into her room and collapses on her bed. Itâs still unbelievable to her that sheâs single now. Sheâs been with Adrien since collĂšge. They dated for six years! The last two years of collĂšge, all three years of lycĂ©e, and another year on top of that, plus Marinetteâs whole first semester of university. Itâs another thing that sheâs not sure how to live without.
But sheâs adapting to not reaching for Tikki whenever she hears trouble. Sheâs adapting to not checking on the kwami every night. Sheâs adapting. Sheâll adapt to life without Adrien as a boyfriend, too. At least heâs not completely gone from her life. That doesnât mean it doesnât hurt.
And now that sheâs alone⊠she has nothing left to stop her from crying.
âMarinette? You back?â The voice is cautious, ready for danger, calling out for confirmation that itâs okay to let down his guard. She stifles her sobs, but still doesnât hear Jonâs shoes on the floorboards before thereâs a knock on her door. âAre you⊠crying?â
âIâm okay!â She calls, sniffling.
Thereâs a silent moment between them. âYou left the door unlocked.â Jon says gently. âI just wanted to make sure it was you.â
âY-yeah. Itâs me. Sorry.â
âItâs okay.â Jon says. ââŠWhat happened?â
âItâs nothing.â Marinette says. âJust⊠Adrien.â
âAdrien?â Jonâs voice takes on a dark quality that she hasnât heard from him before. âDid he do something?â
âNo! No, he didnât do anything wrong.â Marinette says quickly. Hearing that threatening tone in Jonâs voice frightens her more than she thinks it should, considering itâs for her sake. Sheâs never seen him angry before, not after a whole semester living together. Subdued, quite a bit, sad, sometimes, like he has a lot on his shoulders, but never angry. She really doesnât like hearing him that way. âWe broke up.â She says, finally. Jon is a friend, and heâs going to be putting up with her missing Adrien one way or another, so she figures itâs just fair to at least tell him what sheâs crying over.
Thereâs a soft, âOh,â from the other side of the door, and then Jon says, âDo you want to talk about it?â
âNo. Thanks, but⊠no. I donât.â
âOkay.â
And thatâs it. He doesnât say anything else, so Marinette sighs and sits for a while longer in the dark. A few minutes later, thereâs another knock on her door. âMarinette? Come out into the living room.â
Marinette frowns through the dark at the door. âWhy?â
âPlease? Just come out.â
Marinette debates with herself for a moment, glances over to her nightstand where Tikkiâs earrings rest in their box, and slowly rises from her bed.
She opens the door, peeking out to see Jon there with a gentle smile on his face, big, concerned, blue eyes magnified by his square glasses, with one hand held out to her. She frowns at him but takes his hand and lets him guide her to the living room.
And what she sees has her crying all over again. Heâs pulled out an old quilt she didnât know he has, the kind of warm, grandma-crafted thing that just screams safety, homeliness, and comfort. Itâs draped over the sofa, and there are two pints of ice cream on the coffee table, glowing softly in the light of the television playing the intro of a Disney movie in English, one spoon placed carefully on the lid of each pint.
Did he buy ice cream before I got back? Neither of them eat that much ice cream, so when they do they usually go out specifically for it. They rarely just have it in their freezer. She canât help but wonder where he got them, but⊠sheâs not going to think about it too hard. Itâs just her ladybug luck. How helpful it is. Or maybe Jon has some sixth sense for this. He has always been sensitive to her feelings.
She just canât believe him right now. He keeps smiling at her, carefully guiding her to the sofa, and sits her down and throws the quilt over her and hands her one of the pints of ice cream before grabbing the other and slipping under the quilt on the other side of the sofa. He doesnât say anything, he just opens his ice cream and starts digging in, watching the movie like this is just a regularly scheduled movie night. (Maybe, Marinette thinks, they should start having movie nights.)
Marinette opens her pint feeling guilty, because this is so⊠normal. Itâs so sweet and thoughtful of Jon, and it makes her so happy, and it reminds her why she broke up with Adrien and that reminds her how much it hurts.
This is her normal. Life in this little apartment barely big enough for the both of them. Jon from Hamilton County putting his shoes up on the coffee table despite Marinette having spent a semester trying to train him to leave his shoes by the door. Ice cream and Disney movies to get over a breakup. Itâs so pedestrian, so normal, so much exactly what Marinette wants that it hurts.
Because she does love Adrien. Heâs like the sweet frozen cream on her tongue. Heâs a hero, and he makes her feel good when she feels bad, but itâs just not enough. Because heâs a hero, and sheâs a world away in America, searching for her own life and future.
Because here under Jonâs old quilt, eating ice cream and watching Disney movies while heâs just on the other side of the sofa doing the exact same thing like this isnât because sheâs feeling terrible but just because itâs a normal thing to do, she feels normal. And safe. And it feels like a betrayal to her home, to her family and friends, and to Adrien. That they arenât good enough. That she canât be satisfied with them.
Marinette is confused. Sheâs feeling too many things and itâs hard to sort through it all, but she supposes thatâs why normal people drown their worries away in ice cream and silly movies. Because those are so much simpler and bring such a simple pleasure that theyâre easy to focus on.
She looks over to Jon, and heâs attentive of her, glancing her way now and then, checking in on her, but he doesnât bother her. He lets her sit in silence as she pleases. She did say she doesnât want to talk about it, so sheâs thankful for it. Even so, she has to say something. The only thing she can say to him for doing this for her without question. For being so kind and patient and normal. âThank you, Jon.â
Jon beams at her. âDonât mention it.â
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